


Elementary 17: The Baker Street Years VII (1895-1898)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary: The Complete Cases of Castiel Novak (and Dean Winchester) [17]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Begging, Cock Rings, Curses, Destiel - Freeform, Disinheriting, Double Penetration, Espionage, F/M, Gay Sex, London, M/M, Murder, Role-Playing Game, Sabotage, fan fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-23 15:57:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 49,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4882927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Case 82. IN MY TIME OF DYING (The Shocking Loss Of The Steamer Friesland)<br/><b>Case 83. FRESH BLOOD (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Norwood Builder')</b><br/><b>Case 84. THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING (formerly 'The Theft Of The Bruce-Partington Plans')</b><br/><b>Case 85. MY HEART WILL GO ON (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Veiled Lodger')</b><br/><b>Case 86. PAPER MOON (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Missing Three-Quarter')</b><br/><b>Case 87. BLACK (formerly 'The Adventure Of Abbey Grange')</b><br/>Case 88. BUGS (The Case Of Ex-President Murillo)<br/><b>Case 89. DEVIL'S TRAP (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Devil's Foot')</b><br/><b>Case 90. TALL TALES (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Retired Colourman')</b><br/>Case 91. HELLO, CRUEL WORLD (The Case Of The Two Coptic Patriarchs)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MelodyofWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelodyofWings/gifts).



> This set of stories is gifted to MelodyofWings, whose encouragement keeps me going, and who I have rewarded (or possibly punished) by making her part of one of the stories therein.

Following on from yet another adventure where I nearly lost my Cas, I was fragile enough at the start of this period in our lives together, so did not need the shocking revelations that arose from the loss of the steamer Friesland. It was ironic, in a horrible way, how that and the also hitherto unpublished case of the two Coptic patriarchs at the end of this selection of stories had such similar solutions, which so clearly showed man's shocking inhumanity to man. And after the latter case, a train journey into Essex brought a further rupture in my relationship with Cas, described in the subsequent Third or Minor Hiatus which, for once, is written by the great man himself. I remember smiling at his complaining about writing such a short piece, whilst this current final grand volume contains over half a million words, nearly all written by myself.

Damnation, he is looking at me again!

I suppose I owed a small part of the closeness I enjoyed with Cas (and get your mind out of the gutter!) to his family, whose efforts to prize us apart only caused him to cut himself off from the vast majority of them. We were surprisingly assisted by Sir Charles, who I think was displeased at the attitudes of some of his offspring towards us both, and his help proved useful when we crossed swords during this time with Mr. Raphael Novak, who was almost as annoying as the lounge-lizard Balthazar. Talking of whom....

I am getting ahead of myself. Read on, Macduff ( and I can hear someone rolling his eyes behind me as I write that!)!


	2. Case 82: In My Time Of Dying (1895)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as 'the loss of the steamer Friesland'.

I

The disappearance of the steamer 'Friesland' was a most shocking case for Cas and myself. Once more, the case itself proved relatively straightforward, even if the sheer brutality involved in the solution proved breath-taking, given the motive. No, what took me from a London bookshop to Baker Street via the empty wastes of the North Sea was to prove another staging-post in my life, and more importantly, in my relationship with Cas. And all at a time when my emotions were still raw after nearly losing the blue-eyed genius down a mine in Kent.  
   
As with our Kentish adventure, it began with a book signing, my second such ordeal that year. Again, most of those waiting for my illegible scrawl to deface their literature were females, but this time, I was to be given an explanation as to why, when one ‘Lucille’ asked me to dedicate her book to herself and her sister. When I had finished writing, I expected her to move away and let the next lady be seated, but to my surprise she hesitated.  
   
“Sir”, she said in a low voice, “I was wondering….. you and Mr. Castiel….”  
   
She seemed to come to a halt there, and I stared at her, patiently waiting for either illumination or for the book-store’s staff to usher her away.  
   
“I was just thinking”, she said, “well, you know.”  
   
I did not ‘know’. I stared expectantly.  
   
“Just with Mr. Wilde recently”, she said. “You never say anything, but…. well, we women can sense these things.”  
   
Fortunately, it was at that precise moment that the book-store staff chose to finally usher her away, whilst I took a large gulp of my water and wished fervently that it had been something stronger. The great writer Mr. Oscar Wilde, whose latest play we had seen but a few months ago, was now serving time at the notorious Pentonville Jail, having been convicted of gross indecency. And despite all my care over my writings, that lady had worked out…..  
   
I really had to be more careful.  
   
+~+~+

As I have explained earlier, the general Victorian approach to homosexual relationships like mine and Cas' was to accept it, provided that those involved were discreet. In all fairness, it has to be admitted that the great playwright Mr. Oscar Wilde was about as discreet as an express railway locomotive at speed, and that fateful year of 'Ninety-Five he had been at least partially the instrument of his own downfall. Everyone knew that he and his beta 'associate' Lord Alfred Douglas were much more than just friends, but when Lord Alfred's father, the Marquess of Queensberry (later famed for codifying the rules of pugilism), effectively named the playwright as a 'somdomite' at a London club in February of that year, Wilde had foolishly chosen to sue him. The outcome had been bitter and predictable; his case swiftly collapsed, he had been arrested and charged himself almost immediately after, and had just been sentenced to two years hard labour.

It was not just that I sympathized with the jailed playwright, but that I had an uneasy feeling, which even the conservative Times had given voice to, that had this been a relationship between two alphas like myself and and Cas, rather than between two betas, matters might have turned out somewhat differently.

The case, along with that dratted woman's words, made me even more anxious, and it was a testament to the greatness of the man that Cas bore with my 'mother-hen' tendencies with fortitude, including that I grew increasingly nervous when he was out of sight. I was almost relieved, therefore, when we received our next case, little guessing what would ensue from it.  
   
It was a warm morning in early September, and we were still enjoying Mrs. Harvelle's wonderful breakfast when the bell rang. Cas had had it installed so we could be notified as to the arrival of any early clients, rather than subjecting one of the maids to the sight of the great detective in the morning; Cas before coffee was not for the faint-hearted. Indeed, he could often be quite rough if he did not get his caffeine fix. Which I may, on the odd occasion, have been slow in bringing him.

I smiled at the happy memories that thought entailed. Cas sighed resignedly, looked at the clock and rang three times back (that meant 'send up in fifteen minutes'). Sure enough, at that time Mrs. Singer announced a ‘Mr. Elias Sexton’. He was a beta of around fifty years of age, almost completely bald and clean-shaven, and clearly very upset.  
   
“Gentlemen, I wish you to investigate a most puzzling case”, he said. “I cannot make head nor tail of it myself, and my mate Paul thinks I am making the whole thing up. Either that, or there are such things as ghosts.”  
   
Cas eased the man into the visitor’s chair, and presented him with a small brandy, which he accepted with alacrity.  
   
“Pray calm yourself, and begin at the beginning”, he said soothingly. “My services are at your disposal, but apart from the obvious facts that you have travelled down from the East Country this morning, you are or have been in the military and that the matter is of great urgency, I know nothing about it.”  
   
The man swallowed hard. Cas smiled.  
   
“Your railway ticket bears the unusual conductor’s mark that is unique to the Great Eastern Railway Company, which serves Essex and East Anglia”, Cas explained. “Your tie is that of the Fifty-Fourth Essex Regulars, though as they occasionally accept people from south Suffolk, that is no guarantee of your being an East Saxon. Finally, the first passenger train from that area has not long arrived at Liverpool Street Station, which means that you left your home unquestionably early. Your clothes indicate that you are prosperous enough to afford a first-class seat, yet that particular train is a parliamentary one with no first-class accommodation, which means you chose to suffer discomfort so you could be here one hour earlier.”  
   
The man smiled.  
   
“Then if you can also explain how my brother was alive several hours after he died, I would be very grateful!”

   
+~+~+  
   
“It is all quite simple, Mr. Novak”, our guest said. “My brother Raedwald conducted business which necessitated his making frequent trips to the Netherlands. On August the thirty-first he was due to return on the steamer Friesland, owned by the Orange Line. I did not expect to see him as we live our lives independent of each other except for Christmas, but the next day a policeman turned up at my door and said that the ship had been lost. She had last been sighted by a Royal Navy patrol boat, and had disappeared into a fog bank, failing to make her appointed destination at Parkeston Quay that evening. Searches for her were, he told me, ongoing.”  
   
“Yet you think your brother is still alive somehow?” I asked.  
   
“There is more”, he said. “Yesterday, the first, I was returning to my home in Hadleigh, in the county of Suffolk, and my train was held at a signal at Manningtree Junction, where the branch-line to Harwich and Parkeston diverges. Our train began to move, I chanced to look up from my paper, and saw to my surprise that we were passing my brother on the platform!”  
   
“You are sure it was him?” Cas asked.  
   
“Sir, we are twins”, he said firmly. “I know him as I know myself. I did not know what to do at the time, but I had a bad feeling that something either had happened or was about to happen. The next station was Bently Junction, my change for the branch to Hadleigh, but instead I took the first train back to Manningtree, though I knew I was unlikely to see anything.”  
   
“And you did not?” I asked.  
   
He looked at me, and I felt a chill run down my spine.  
   
“I regret to say that I did”, he said. “Our train was stopped outside the station, and we had to walk along the track. A man had either fallen or been pushed into the path of the Norwich express.”  
   
We both winced.  
   
“I will spare you the question”, he said flatly. “What was left was not recognizable.”  
   
I shuddered.  
   
“So your question is as to whether the man you saw for a few seconds was indeed your brother?” Cas asked.  
   
“Sir, I am absolutely sure that it was”, Mr. Sexton said firmly. “Which means that there is something very strange happening in the North Sea. I am a man of moderate means, but I will spend every last penny I have to find the truth!”  
   
He had a fanatical look about him, and I knew he spoke truth. Cas nodded.  
   
“We will take this case”, he said. “Pray leave your card with the doctor, and we will telegraph you immediately there are any significant developments.”  
   


"But Mr. Sexton?"

"Yes?"

Cas seemed to hesitate, which was not like him.

"My instincts tell me that this case may involve an element of danger", he said. "I would most strongly advise that you do not tell anyone about your experience at that station."

"Why not, Mr. Novak?" our guest asked.

"If you did indeed see your brother on a country station after he was supposedly lost at sea, then clearly someone has gone to a lot of trouble to kill him", Cas said, looking meaningfully at our guest. "Should such a person become aware that you are involved in some way, they may seek to remove you as well. Keep silent, and be assured that we will do the same." 

Our guest looked terrified as he took his leave.

II  
   
Unfortunately Cas’ determination to commence work was frustrated by his own body, which had barely recovered from our Kentish ventures before he contracted a severe cough. He spent most of the next week suffering in what was most definitely not silence – he was a tolerable patient except when he wanted to be on a case – and by the end of it, I was in despair. I may or may not have selected a particularly vile chest-rub for him that had our maids refusing to come into the room with our lunch. And I may or may not have insisted on rubbing the concoction particularly thoroughly into his skin.  
   
All right, I did. But he drove me to it. Besides, I enjoyed it!  
   
With Cas out of commission, I decided one way to make sure he did not go out of the house was to do some research for him, so I extracted a list of the information he wanted (plus a promise that he was not to leave the house), and set about obtaining it for him. He wished for a complete history of the Orange Line, including all their current craft, and exact details of the lost steamer. In return for my devoting my time to this, he promised to not try to sneak out of the house (although the way he smelled, I am sure the Singers could have detected him the moment he had stepped out into the corridor). I returned after a long day, and related my findings to him.  
   
“The company has been in existence for just under twenty years”, I said. “They originally just ran ferries up and down the Dutch coast, not very successfully it seems, until two years ago they won the right to run the service from the Great Eastern Railway’s new harbour at Parkeston over to Hook of Holland. They also began running services from the Hook across to Hull at the same time.”  
   
“Quite an expansion”, Cas said.  
   
“Yes”, I said. “The railway purchased a 49% stake in the company, which gave them the money they needed. The Friesland was the second of four steamers built or ordered at the company’s own shipyards in Rotterdam. The 'Geldreland' runs on the Hull route, and the 'Holland' has just been completed and is running tests for the Parkeston route. They have not started work on the 'Zeeland' as yet.”  
   
“Did you manage to obtain plans for them?” he asked.  
   
“Yes”, I said, “although there are only two sets. The Hull route ships have bigger engines and are about twenty foot longer than the Parkeston ones. And they have broad red stripes along the side, whilst the Parkeston ships have blue ones.”  
   
He nodded, seemingly satisfied. I deposited all my paperwork on the table, and went to my room, but before I could reach the door, he spoke.  
   
“Did you choose that vile chest rub just to keep me home?” he demanded.  
   
I blushed.  
   
“Doctor-patient confidentiality”, I bluffed.  
   
“I am the patient!” he protested.  
   
“And I am the doctor! I quipped. “I'll be back out for dinner!”  
   
I closed the door on him, but not before I heard him chuckle. I smiled to myself.  
   
+~+~+  
   
It was only the following day that an unpleasant consequence of my day’s labours made itself manifest. I had insisted on Cas taking some cough-medicine and staying home at least for this day, and preferably the next. To my surprise, he agreed to a further application of the unguent, though the cold he seemed to be developing to go with the cough may have persuaded him of its merits.  
   
I was about half-done when we heard a commotion from outside the door. Someone, a woman judging from the voice, was insisting on coming to see us, despite the maid’s protestations (the Singers were out shopping that morning). We looked at each other in surprise, but before we could prepare in any way, a woman came hurrying through the door, only to stop in shock when she saw a half-naked Cas. Though not as shocked as I was.  
   
It was Mrs. Margaret Masters!  
   
“Well!” she said.  
   
+~+~+  
   
We were spared a prolonged period of staring at each other by the advent of the maid, whose shriek at seeing one of her mistress’s tenants half-naked and subsequent rapid withdrawal (flight) seemed to snap us out of our trances. Or at least myself and Mrs. Masters; Cas quite coolly got up and walked over to don a long silken dressing-gown that I had given him last Christmas, before returning to his chair and bidding our unannounced guest to sit down. It did not escape my notice just how closely she eyed my friend during this move, though when she turned her gaze on me, I did not care for the knowing look she delivered.  
   
“Visitors who burst in unannounced when I am being treated for a cough by my doctor must take what they see”, Cas said, and I noticed with pleasure that there was a cold edge to his voice. “Mrs. Masters. How may I be of service?”  
   
His tone implied quite clearly that he hoped any ‘service’ would be brief at worst. Unfortunately her opening words scotched that hope.  
   
“I chanced to see you at the library yesterday, doctor”, she said, sitting herself down in the fireside chair. “You were researching the steamer Friesland.”  
   
I could not deny it, though I did not see what business it was of hers. I nodded.  
   
“My future husband was on that ship”, she said, much to the surprise of both of us. “Mr. Nicholas Davill. If there is something strange about its sinking, I have a right to know.”  
   
“You have no rights….” I began, only for Cas to hold up his hand.  
   
“I am inquiring into a certain aspect of the loss of that ship”, he said. “I could not be expected to know of your ties to one of the seventeen passengers on that sailing. However, once I have reached my conclusions, I will communicate them privately to you if you wish.”  
   
“If you can spare the time between massages!” she said scornfully. She stood up and tossed a calling-card on the side-table. “Clearly I am wasting my time here. I had thought you investigated crimes, but clearly you have other interests now! Just like Mr. Wilde!”  
   
She glided to the door, but Cas was faster. The doorknob was pulled from her hands by his slamming the door shut. He seemed to tower over her, and she shrank from him in terror.  
   
“Understand this, my lady”, he said, and his voice was suddenly laden with a menace I had never heard before. “If you make one single public insinuation against the good doctor here, then I will have no hesitation in instructing my relatives to make your own life decidedly interesting. Everything that you or those close you you have ever done that is even slightly questionable will be splashed across every major newspaper in the British Empire. Your life will become quite intolerable. That, I guarantee!”  
   
She backed away from him in shock, trembling. He eyed her for a moment, then pulled the door open and gestured for her to leave, which she did. Almost as fast as the vanished maid.  
   
“Come, doctor”, he said, returning to the chair and removing his dressing-gown. “You will finish your application of the unguent now, if that is acceptable?”  
   
“Oh, yes”, I said, still stunned by his fiery defence of me. “Yes, very.”  
   
III

I was still reeling from the encounter with Mrs. Masters the following day, and was surprised when Cas yielded to my request to stay home for a further twenty-four hours, though he did ask me if I would do some further research for him, on the Orange Line and the Friesland's sister ship, the Holland. He seemed strangely depressed, which worried me, and I brought him back a half-pound of barley-sugar along with my findings that evening. He had also received a telegram from Mrs. Masters that day, apologizing for her behaviour the day before and asking (politely) if he would indeed send her any findings relating to her fiancé. He had replied curtly that he would.

“I am surprised that you did not ask your brother for help”, I said as I presented my findings to him that evening. His eyes lit up when he saw the barley-sugar.

“I am sure he knows I am investigating this matter”, Cas said, unwrapping one of the sweets. “Indeed, the fact he has not yet visited is something I find quite welcoming.” He looked at me askance before adding, “as, I am sure, do you.”

I blushed at the truth in that observation.

“Have you any idea how the ship disappeared?” I asked.

“I am rather afraid that I have”, he said. “However, I will not be able to fully resolve the case until Mr. Sexton answers the telegram I sent him this afternoon.”

“What did you want to know?” I asked.

“Whether there was anything found in his late brother's possession that might indicate a sudden change of travel plans. If so, then the case will be all but complete.”

I stared in confusion, but as usual he was not forthcoming with any more information. Then I remembered something else he had asked me to check.

“Oh, you were right about the co-ordinates of the last sighting”, I said. “The Friesland would have struck the coast around Lowestoft, had she continued on the course she was on. I wonder why she was so far off course.”

“I am very much afraid that she was not”, Cas said.

+~+~+

Mr. Sexton's telegram arrived the next morning, and Cas responded by immediately dispatching a message to Inspector Henriksen, asking him to call round. I was pleased; I had not seen our friend for some time, as he had only recently returned from sorting out a police corruption scandal in Worcestershire. When he arrived later that same day, however, he was not alone. He brought two people with him, one of whom was a tall blond alpha with a fox-like expression, to whom I took an instant dislike. 

It did not help that the other person was Mr. Balthazar Novak.

“I am not having this meeting documented”, the mystery blond man said firmly. He had a foreign accent, possibly German.

“Would you rather I hand my findings over to the British press?” Cas said coldly, and he sounded unusually angry. “I think a case of mass murder by a foreign power which purports to be a friend of Great Britain would be guaranteed to dominate the front pages for many days, if not weeks.”

The man glared at him, but did not respond.

“You would not do that, Castiel”, Balthazar Novak said. “We all have too much at stake here.”

“That is why your friend is being given a chance to make reparations for his foul act”, Cas said curtly. “For the benefit of the doctor, who will take notes, I will state what you did, then I will state what you are going to do. Kindly note that, as I am not a Continental government, the concept of negotiation is unknown to me.”

“Mr. Van Meyer will co-operate”, Balthazar Novak said, staring at his companion. “As will the Dutch government. I guarantee it.”

The blond man glared at him, but did not speak. Cas nodded.

“This case hinged on one of the seventeen passengers on the Friesland that fateful day”, he said. “Fittingly number thirteen on the list, Mr. Muhammad Ahmoud. He travelled across Europe from Constantinople to Amsterdam, then proceeded to the Hook to catch the ferry to England. However, whilst in the Netherlands he felt ill, and went to see a doctor, only to be reassured that all was well. I am sorry to decry a member of your profession, doctor, but he was lied to. The man had contracted smallpox.”

I shuddered at the mention of that terrible disease. It had once been a major killer across the world, but at the start of the century the great Mr. Edward Jenner had shown that deliberately infecting people with the much milder cowpox disease gave them immunity from its nastier sister, and it was now virtually eradicated, at least in England. 

“The correct thing to do would have been to inform the patient and quarantine him”, Cas went on. “Instead, the doctor informed the Dutch government, who did what governments always do in such situations, namely panic. In the forthcoming Continental War, the position of the Netherlands will be important, and for the Dutch to knowingly send a smallpox-infected man into England would not exactly make for good relations.”

“The government came up with a plan. Mr. Ahmoud and the other passengers are allowed to board. The ship sails from harbour, and once at sea the government's agents carry out the cold-blooded murder of all the passengers on board. Meanwhile the Friesland leaves port and sails around until she is spotted near a fog bank, into which she disappears. The ship is then joined by a second ship, onto whom the crew and government agents transfer. The Friesland is then scuttled and the other ship returns to harbour. I had considered that a swap with the Holland had been involved, but since she left on her own sailing before the other ship returned, it could not have been.”

I stared at my friend in shock.

“Seventeen people!” I exclaimed. “All killed?”

“Not quite”, Cas said. “There was a last-minute hitch. Mr. Elias Sexton told me that his brother had indeed been unexpectedly summoned back to Rotterdam just half an hour before he boarded the ship. Since he had been in the waiting-room along with Mr. Ahmoud for at least an hour, there was the danger that he was infected. Dutch government agents tracked him down at Manningtree Junction, but by the impenetrable workings of Providence Mr. Raedwald Sexton was spotted from a train by his brother after he was supposed to have been drowned.”

There was a heavy silence in the room, and my pen sounded absurdly loud as it scratched on the paper. I could hardly write, given what I was hearing.

“What do you want?” Mr. Van Meyer ground out. 

Cas turned to him. 

“In the next twenty-four hours, one of two things will happen”, he said, his voice laden with menace. “Either, an anonymous but wealthy philanthropist will decide to donate a very large sum of money to the next of kin of all seventeen people on that ship. Very, very large. Or, the Times newspaper will have one of its most shocking front-page stories of its mostly honourable existence. Your choice, sir. Though when you stand in front of St. Peter at those Pearly Gates, I do not think any degree of diplomatic sophistry will save you from the long drop. You may now leave.”

The diplomat scowled at him, but stood and left, followed by Henriksen. Mr. Balthazar Novak, to my annoyance, remained.

“You made a sensible choice there, brother”, he said.

“I did what was needed”, Cas said, scowling at him. “I loathe politics, but I understand the necessity of maintaining good relations, even if it is with governments who think willful murder is acceptable practice.”

“Castiel....”

“Do not pretend that Her Majesty's government would not have done exactly the same thing, had the situation been otherwise”, Cas said, sounding tired. “Go away, Balthazar.”

“That was not what I was going to say”, his brother said. “Michael has called a meeting of the family trustees.”

I did not know what that meant, but it clearly engendered a reaction from Cas. He stood up, coughed, and glared at his brother.

“About what?” he demanded.

IV

“He and Rafe think that you and the doctor here are a danger”, Balthazar went on. “Especially with all this fuss about Mr. Wilde.....”

“Get out.”

I barely heard the words, but the look Cas was giving his brother threatened severe physical damage was imminent. It was one of the rare times that I ever saw Mr. Balthazar Novak look fearful.

“Castiel....”

“Get out while you can still walk out!”

His brother sighed unhappily, but stood up and left. Cas pulled himself slowly to his feet, looking strangely uncertain. I left my notes and walked over to him.

“I am sorry about that”, I said. “If I can.....”

“Dean?”

“Yes?”

“Hold me.”

“What?”

He looked on the brink of tears.

“Just... please. I'm so cold, and so tired of it all. Just... hold me.”

I rushed over him and pulled him close. Even though we were both fully clothed, he seemed to be trying to scent me, but I just let him. I would let him do anything.

“I need to see Martinson”, he muttered.

“Your lawyer?” I asked, confused. “Why?”

He looked up at me, and for once he actually looked a little uncertain.

“That meeting”, he said slowly. “Mike and Rafe are planning to disinherit me. Father and Mother are away at the moment, and they are trying to act in their absences.”

“They cannot do that!” I said hotly. “You are as much a Novak as they are!”

“They think that because of the situation of my birth, they can challenge my status”, he said softly. “But they would need all the brothers to agree, and even if they persuaded Gabriel and Balthazar, Lucifer would never agree.”

“Good!” I said fervently.

“But I still need to see Martinson”, he said, pulling back a little. There were tears in those wonderful blue eyes, and it nearly broke me to see them. “It is time I accepted that the worst may one day happen.....”

“Cas! No!”

“It may, Dean”, he said gently. “And if it does, even though we can never be married in the eyes of the law, I want to leave everything I have and everything that I am to you.”

“Cas!”

“Please!” he almost begged. “Let me feel that I've lived my life to some purpose, not just so my brothers can all get even richer if the worst happens. Please, Dean.”

I kissed him gently and held him close again.

“Only if you let me do the same to you”, I said, knowing how much this meant to him. “Besides, I am older, so I could go first. Deal?”

“Deal!” he said, smiling through the tears. “Shake on it?”

I grinned wolfishly.

“I was hoping for something a little more.... binding”, I said. “After all, it's been a while since you had those cuffs on me.”

“Dean Winchester, you are incorrigible!” he chuckled. “But yes. I like your idea of 'a binding contract'.”

And with that he led me to his bedroom. To which I went more than willingly.

+~+~+

Next time, we make a venture into the construction business, and Cas finds a new way to rock my world....


	3. Case 83: Fresh Blood (1895)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the Norwood Builder'.

I

It was a little over two weeks between the shocking conclusion to the Friesland case, and the arrival of our next one. It was also one of the strangest fortnights of my life.

I would have course have agreed to anything for Cas, but in all honesty I fully expected him to wake up the morning after his row with his brother Balthazar having calmed down, and to make his peace with his family. Instead he seemed even more focussed than usual, and insisted the very next day on our going to Mr. Martinson and drawing up our wills, leaving all we had (save a few personal possessions I had promised to Sammy) to each other. All that energy with nowhere to go unnerved me, although he was even more passionate than usual when we coupled that night, whispering how much he loved me as he seemingly tried to snuggle inside my skin.

(I was still a manly man, but for Cas, I would snuggle).

In the days that followed, Cas remained unsettled, and I telegraphed the surgery that they would have to cover my patients for a time due to 'a family emergency'. My friend was even visibly upset when I went down to talk to Mrs. Singer one time, seemingly fearful that he would be left alone. It hurt me to see him broken like this, and I was determined to fix things. His brother Balthazar had come round two days after that fateful meeting, but Cas had flatly refused to see him, and I did not feel inclined to remove myself from the doorway. I knew he could have pushed me aside if he had wanted, but his brother’s rejection seemed to have drained all the fight out of him, and he slunk away.

One week in, and Sir Charles and Lady Rebecca returned from the Continent. I only knew about this because Mrs. Thompson, formerly Miss Anael Novak, contrived to 'bump into me' at the local post office, and inquire after her brother. She and Cas had always got on well, but I told her in all honesty that I did not think he was up to receiving visitors at the moment, especially family, though I would definitely tell him we had met. Cas evinced little interest at the news, although fortunately I had by this time found a partial outlet for all that energy, working with him to better organize his copious notes. The following day a telegram arrived, inviting Cas to come to the family home, to which he sent back the single word reply 'No'. 

Slowly, things did get better, although I noted that Cas was not accepting any of the regular flow of new cases that came in each day's mail. It was not yet officially autumn, yet the weather seemed to have taken a decided turn towards cold. I found myself beginning to wish for a decent case – just a small one, nothing too dramatic or life-threatening, for my sake as much as his – in order to pull my friend out of the depression he seemed to have sunk into.  
   
For once, I got my wish.  
   
+~+~+  
   
“Is there anything of interest in the paper today?”  
   
Cas sounded only half-hearted in his request, but it was a rare spark these last few days, and I sought eagerly to keep it alive. I quickly scoured the Times.  
   
“The Football Association’s Challenge Cup has been stolen from a shop window in Birmingham”, I read.  
   
“Hmm”, he said, seemingly disinterested.  
   
“More wars in Africa… some roads still blocked by fallen trees after last night's storms.... rumours of another minor political crisis, as if that's news… they are trying a new form of the game of rugby football in the North.... oh, and a house apparently been blown down in Norwood.”  
   
He raised an eyebrow at that.  
   
“'Apparently' been blown down?” he echoed.  
   
I quickly scanned the short article.  
   
“It seems it was being demolished by a group of local builders, and a major wall collapsed due to last night's winds”, I said. “Some minor damage to a nearby property, but no injuries.”  
   
“Bizarre”, he commented. Further conversation was prevented by the arrival of breakfast, and we forswore the paper for the delights of Mrs. Singer’s cooking. At least Cas' eyes lit up at the sight of his intolerably crispy bacon.  
   
+~+~+  
   
It was the following day that the mysterious collapsing house became our very next case, with the arrival of Mr. Lachlan Jones to Baker Street. He was a short, middle-aged beta with fiery red hair, thin to the point of being wiry. When he spoke, he had a slight Scottish accent; somewhere in the Borders I judged, it sounding similar to my dear mother's.  
   
“You may have read of part of my case in the newspapers, gentlemen”, he said brusquely. “The matter of Fortinbras House?”  
   
Cas looked surprised, but I whispered ‘Norwood’ to him, and he nodded.  
   
“What connection do you have to the building, sir?” he inquired.  
   
“My business was demolishing it”, he said. “And someone is trying to demolish my business!”  
   
+~+~+  
   
“I hope you will find the time to come down and see the building for yourself, sir – or at least what remains of it! – but Fortinbras House was a folly erected some fifty-three years ago by an eccentric retired merchant with more money than sense. Though as a builder I should not perhaps say that; those people are normally the best clients!”  
   
I smiled as I made notes.  
   
“The area has been developed since then, and there were houses up to the edges of its grounds”, he said. “The man himself died some twenty years ago, and the local council recently decided to acquire the land from his grandson, who had just inherited it and lives in Scotland. However, a survey showed the building was on the brink of toppling over, which meant it would have to be slowly and carefully taken down, especially as it was some four storeys high. Which was where my company came in.”  
   
“So you were employed to demolish the property?” Cas asked. The man nodded.  
   
“The council invited three bids from local bidders, and chose Smith and Jones”, he said proudly. “There is of course the usual business rivalry with both the other firms, but with one of them, Fresh and Sons, it has become quite personal of late. Mr. Roland Fresh disowned his son Ranulph, who came to work for us part-time whilst he studies at college. Only a few hours a week, but it has greatly soured relations, and they were bad enough to start with.”  
   
“What is the other company called?” Cas asked.  
   
“Flowerdown Builders Limited”, our guest said. “They are based just over the border in Thornton Heath, so we rarely have dealings with them.”  
   
“Is it your opinion that Mr. Roland Fresh was behind the sudden collapse of your building?” Cas asked.  
   
The man nodded.  
   
“We lost some equipment on the site, but the worst thing is the damage it has done to our good name”, he said. “Unless I can prove that we were victims of a conspiracy, then our chances of getting future business are remote. And I had to sack a man recently, a Mr. Sasha Ryazan. Byelorussian or some such nonsense; I had thought he was doing a good job, but I caught him taking supplies for his own house. I don't know if he was in Mr. Fresh's pay, though.”

I wondered if Cas would be prepared to leave the relative sanctuary of Baker Street at this time, but he surprised me.

“A breath of fresh air would do us both good”, he said. “As my knowledge of the building trade is limited, perhaps you can spare one of your staff to run through the demolition process with me? I promise that I will visit Norwood tomorrow.”

The builder smiled.

“Thank you, sir”, he said. He stood, bowed, and left.

“You do not wish to go today?” I asked. He shook his head.

“I wish to do a little research first”, he said. “I have impinged on your good nature long enough, friend. A doctor cannot survive on just one grumpy patient.”

“You are the man I love”, I said firmly. “You will always come first.”

He smiled at that.

II

The following day was the seventeenth, and we decamped to Victoria Station and a slow London. Brighton and South Coast Railway train which ambled its unhurried way through London's growing southern tendrils before easing to a halt in West Norwood Station. From there Cas elected to first go and see the remains of the Folly. 

It was not a pretty sight. The road itself was closed off, and we had to alight some distance away and walk. The building must once have looked like a castle keep, judging from what remained of one corner, but the western side of the building had collapsed completely, falling across the grounds with some stones clearly having impacted on the roof of the neighbouring house, judging by the holes covered with sheeting. There were men at work erecting scaffolding around the Folly, presumably in an attempt to stabilize what remained of the building. 

From the wreckage, it was a short cab ride to the builder's yard of Smith and Jones. Mr. Jones greeted us, and invited us into the main office. 

“This is Mr. Ranulph Fresh”, he said, introducing a fresh-faced young blond alpha with a pleasant expression. “Forgive the discourtesy gentlemen, but the local police have just this minute called and said they have detained Mr. Ryazan trying to leave the area. I am summoned to the station at once.”

“I am sure Mr. Fresh can answer any questions I may have”, Cas said smoothly. “Pray, do not keep the emissaries of justice waiting.”

The business owner rushed off. Mr. Fresh looked after him almost sadly.

“That man has been more of a father to me than my own blood”, he said pensively. “I really hope the police are right, and that Sasha is behind the sabotage.”

“Neither the doctor nor I are conversant with the demolition process”, Cas said. “Could you explain it to us, please?”

The young man nodded, and pulled a rolled-up plan out from a shelf, rolling it out onto the table and pinning it down with books.

“I suppose it must seem odd”, he said, “but before we do any demolition, we have to do some building. We test the structure to detect any weak points, and work out a demolition plan, then see what needs to be strengthened in case it falls down too early. The Folly was in a terrible state, I remember, and it had to have several structural beams added before we could safely start work there.”

“So if these beams were removed during the demolition process”, Cas asked, “then that would cause a collapse like the one that happened?”

“Someone with the right knowledge – and that includes Sasha, I am sorry to say – could just weaken the connections where the beams meet the walls”, Mr. Fresh said. “In the ensuing wreckage there would be next to no evidence of any tampering. It would no take long, either.”

“Is this a blueprint?” I asked. The young man nodded.

“This is one of two sets of the demolition plans”, he said. “Mr. Jones keeps the other on him at all times. He thought something like this would happen, though he actually thought my father would be the one to try something.”

“Very security-conscious of him”, Cas said. “The doctor and I have certain other inquiries to pursue in the area today, but we will return later. Will you still be here?”

“No”, he said. “I have classes from one to four at the local college, then I go home. I have a small flat above a shop in the High Street, number 32A.”

Cas hesitated.

“I am afraid that I must ask you for your father's address”, he said, sounding almost apologetic. “I myself do not think he is the man behind the Folly's collapse, but Mr. Jones is my client, and if I do not interview a potential suspect, he will think I am not doing my job.”

“I understand”, Mr. Fresh said. “He lives at Number Eight, Little Common, Dulwich. It is a huge place, really its own little estate of twenty properties, each of which backs onto the private common. Though I doubt he will see you.”

“Thank you”, Cas said. “One final question, because the doctor likes to know these things. What happened to Mr. Smith?”

The young man looked confused.

“The company name”, I prompted, wondering how on earth Cas had known that I had been wondering just that.

“Oh, I see”, he said. “Mr. Jones' wife was formerly Miss Edna Smith, and her brother Edgar put a lot of money into the firm. In return, he asked for recognition in the name and a share of the profits. He does not play any part in the business on a day-to-day basis; I believe he is financially well-off enough to support himself.”

+~+~+

We adjourned to the High Street and a frankly disappointing little restaurant, where even the pie was soggy and uninspiring. We then took a cab to Dulwich where, as his son had foretold, the elder Mr. Fresh refused to see us in person, and even threatened to call the police if we did not leave. We thus returned to the builder's yard, where Cas asked the secretary, a grizzled elderly lady called Miss Dale whom he charmed as usual, about the business.

“Mr. Jones works every hour that the Good Lord sends”, she said, sounding faintly disapproving. “This has been a terrible ordeal for him.”

“May I ask who has access to the blueprints in the office?” Cas inquired.

“Only Mr. Jones and young Mr. Fresh”, she said. I do not allow the Men in here.”

I could hear the capital. 

“Miss Dale”, Cas smiled, “you are clearly a lady of intelligence. You will know that the police arrested Mr. Sasha Ryazan this morning. I have never met him, so may I be permitted to know your opinion of the man?”

“A complete simpleton”, she said, almost scornfully. “But not dishonest. I do not know how those building supplies got to his house, but I would wager a week's earnings that he did not take them.”

“If he did not, then who did?” Cas asked.

She looked at him thoughtfully. 

“If you are half as smart as those books make you out to be, then you should already know”, she said.

“I have a fair idea”, Cas said. “I saw in the local newspaper that the owner of the property adjoining the Folly, which was itself damaged, is suing Mr. Jones.”

“Then time is of the essence”, she said. “A character stain, once made, rarely comes out.”

To my surprise, Cas laughed.

“I agree”, he said. “Maybe it is time for an application of bleach.”

III

Mr. Jones returned shortly after three o'clock.

“The police are holding him, but he denies it all”, he grumbled. “Damnation!”

“Innocent men usually do tend to deny accusations against them”, Cas said.

The builder looked at him in surprise.

“Sasha is innocent?” he asked.

“You owe that unhappy man an apology”, Cas said firmly. “Even if he was framed.”

“Framed?”

“Sir, I need you to think hard”, Cas urged. “Your efficient secretary, Miss Dale, tells us that you never let the plans for the demolition of the Folly out of your sight. Is that correct?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Really?”

Mr. Jones looked at us in confusion. 

“I always kept the originals on me, in case that rat Fresh persuaded one of my men to alter the plans in the office”, he said. “At all times.”

His face suddenly went very pale. 

“Oh my God!”

“You have remembered the incident when you were momentarily separated from the plans”, Cas said.

The builder nodded.

“And you remember who it was who ran after you and gave them to you?” Another nod.

“Can it be proven?” he muttered. “You have seen the wreckage. Surely there is no proof?”

“There may be”, Cas said with a smile. “But we may have to be a little unethical in obtaining it.....”

+~+~+

We called in briefly at Mr. Fresh's flat in the High Street, but he was not back from college yet. Cas asked the landlady one or two questions, and seemed pleased with her answers.

+~+~+

I was a little hurt when, the following morning, Cas asked if he could have our rooms to meet someone in private. Clearly I was useless at hiding my feelings at times like this, and when I returned later, he spotted it at once.

“You are upset.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“I know you do things for a reason”, I said, trying to sound disinterested.

He did not immediately answer, but lifted something from next to him by the chair. At first I thought it was a framed picture, but on closer inspection I recognized it was a blueprint.

“The demolition plans?” I asked. “But why are they framed? And how come you have them?”

He smiled. 

“I shall answer one of those questions”, he said. “I knew who had them, but as I am somewhat averse to breaking and entering myself – besides which, I know full well you would have insisted on accompanying me, and I would prefer not to drag you into such things – I employed a specialist.”

“A specialist?” I asked.

“A certain Mr. Tobias Brunswick, one of the best thieves in London”, he said. “Some time ago he was accused of committing a theft for which he was, for once, not responsible, and I succeeded in proving that he had been, as they say, 'fitted up'. I am sorry that I had to evict you this morning, but he is by his nature extremely reluctant to deal with anybody but myself.”

“I do not remember the case”, I said, still feeling a little testy.

“It was between Piccadilly and my return, second time around”, he said, looking at me beseechingly. Which was completely unfair; how could I stay mad when he looked like that? I sighed heavily.

“I forgive you”, I said. “Provided you tell me everything about the case.”

“We are going down to Norwood to meet with Mr. Jones shortly”, he said. “But before.... I sent out before you came back and ordered pie.”

"I cannot be bought off every time with pie, you know", I said loftily.

He just looked at me.

"What flavour?"

+~+~+

There were six of us in the main office of Smith and Jones; Cas and myself, Mr. Jones, Mr. Fresh, Mr. Ryazan and a policeman from the local station, Constable Truelove. As with most policemen these days, he looked depressingly young. Mr. Ryazan looked positively frightened.

“Mr. Jones”, Cas said. “Yesterday we had a discussion which, I suspect, showed that there was a person in this room who was doing their best to destroy your business.”

“I am innocent!” Mr. Ryazan declared roundly.

“I know”, Cas said. The foreigner looked up in shock.

“But you are accusing me of destroying that building!” he insisted.

“I do not recall accusing you of anything”, Cas said airily. He turned to the policeman. “You have a set of handcuffs on you, sir?”

“Yes”, the constable said, looking uncertain.

“Then please do me the courtesy of placing them on..... this man.”

As he was speaking, he walked around the table, and finished by placing a heavy hand on young Mr. Fresh's shoulder. The man jumped, but laughed.

“Really, Mr. Novak!” he said. “Why would I try to destroy the man who gave me a job when my father threw me out?”

“The game is up”, Cas said with a smile. “But since you insist on denying it, I will tell 'the man who gave you a job when your father threw you out' just how you betrayed him, and why.”

Mr. Fresh smiled, but it looked slightly forced.

“You and your father decided some time ago to destroy your main business rival”, Cas said. “His getting a contract that you had wanted was the last straw. You faked an argument with your father, and apparently moved out to a small flat over a shop in the High Street. But the landlady there says that you are hardly ever in residence. And I would suspect that when the police check the comings and goings at the house of the father who has allegedly disowned you, they will find that you feature somewhat prominently.”

The young man had gone pale. Cas continued.

“Attending college requires much more money than you earn from your part-time post here”, he said. “Your first act was particularly vile. In order to create a suspect for what you were planning, you arranged for some supplies from the yard to be taken to Mr. Ryazan's house, knowing he would be sacked for stealing. A foreigner makes a tempting target, and I am sorry to say, Mr. Jones, that you allowed your xenophobia to blind you to the truth.”

The business owner blushed. Cas turned back to the young blond man in his grip.

“You next created two alternative sets of blueprints for the demolition task”, Cas went on. “Exchanging the office ones would be easy, and you had the opportunity to exchange the others when Mr. Jones rushed out of the office one day leaving them behind. You, the dutiful employee, hurried after him – but the plans you gave him were the altered ones, designed by you so the building would collapse, preferably whilst your employer's men were working on it. It was only through the workings of Divine Providence that a strong gale came through one night and frustrated your plans.”

“You have no proof!” Mr, Fresh almost snarled. “This is just words.”

Cas smiled unpleasantly, and walked over to the door.

“Miss Dale?” he called out.

Clearly the secretary handed him the framed blueprint, because he came back with it. Mr. Fresh's eyes bulged.

“People like you and your father like trophies of your 'successes'”, Cas said sharply. “Unfortunately, you both worked on this in making the copy, as I found two sets of fingerprints on it when I examined it this morning. I think your father may find it difficult to explain to the police exactly how both his and your fingerprints are on a blueprint that came from his rival's office. And how the original plan then ended up framed in his own study in Dulwich.”

Mr. Fresh sprang up and lunged at Cas, who stepped nimbly back. I did not hesitate, but leaped forward and punched the guilty man squarely on the jaw, causing him to slump to the floor groaning. The constable had the cuffs on him in a matter of seconds, and hauled him from the room.

“Thank you, Mr. Novak”, Mr. Jones smiled. “I cannot tell you what a relief this is. You have rid me of a blight I did not even know I had, and cleared my name. I assume you will be sending me your bill?”

Cas looked at him thoughtfully.

“No, sir”, he said.

The business owner looked surprised.

“No?”

“This has been just the case I needed after a recent and very unpleasant case”, Cas said. “I will not be levying any direct charges. However....”

He wagged a finger at Mr. Jones.

“You owe Mr. Ryazan here an apology”, he said reprovingly. “His job back, if he chooses to have it. And back-pay from the date he was unfairly sacked, even if he chooses to seek employment elsewhere. Otherwise I may have to tell the newspapers that whilst your company was the victim here, the xenophobia on your part was unwarranted. Good day, sir.”

He walked from the building, and I followed him.

IV

I had read somewhere that, given the right circumstances, it was possible for a man wearing a cock-ring to break through its restrictive grip. And with Cas having taken me for the fourth time in a row, if that was ever going to happen it might well be now.

My birthday surprise for Cas' forty-first was a night away at a rather unique little bed and breakfast place I had heard about in Cuckfield, Sussex. I had secretly packed us both some clothes in my doctor's bag, which always went with us, and the look of gratitude on his face when he realized my plans on West Norwood Platform One had been almost too much. Though not as much as now.

Cas had long had a preference to take me what was called 'doggy-style', with me on my hands and knees on the bed whilst he repeatedly impaled me from behind. Of course this being his birthday I had brought our small but growing collection of sex toys with me – thank Heavens we did not live in one of those countries where the police inspected people's private bags, or I would have had some explaining to do - and told him that as a treat, he could do whatever he liked with me (yes, I know this was a normal state of affairs, and shut up!). He had taken that literally, slipping on a cock-ring at once and then inserting the vibrator whilst he recovered his breath. I had no senses left to speak of, but I was just a six-foot-one lump of blissed-out happiness.

The vibrator was removed and quickly replaced with pure Cas, and I groaned as he went straight for my prostate. I was sure I could hear the metal of the cock-ring groaning as I strained at it, but it still held, denying me release. Cas, the bastard, had said he would remove it before we left, but I was not allowed to come until we were back in Baker Street. The thought of a long and often bumpy train-ride whilst trying not to explode only added fuel to the fire, and I groaned somewhere between pain and ecstasy.

Cas finally came again inside me – it was frankly amazing the amount of ejaculate that he could produce – and this time just slumped on top of me, pushing me down onto the bed and rubbing my over-sensitive cock with his hand against the sheets. I sighed again.

“Why here?” he whispered in my ear. Why he was whispering I had no idea; it was a blessing both that there were no other guests and that the owners were known for their discretion.

“Breakfast!” I managed to gasp out. Conversation might have been easier had he not been nibbling away at my ear, which he knew was one of my primary erogenous zones. He let go of my cock to tweak my nipples, and I grunted happily.

“What about breakfast?” he asked. “I am building up quite an appetite after all this.”

“Good”, I managed, having just enough energy to turn my head and avoid speaking straight into the pillow. “Because they not only do some of the best bacon in Sussex, but they also do all you can eat.”

He had been busy sucking another love-bite into my neck, but stopped and instead kissed over it.

“I love you so much”, he whispered. “You are mine, Dean, whatever people say. All mine!”

And incredibly he started to become hard again, and began to pound into me anew. Honestly, the things I put up with for that man!

+~+~+

Some faraway islands in the eastern oceans provided our next case, which Cas would be able to solve thanks to a pair of knitted socks....


	4. Case 84: The Man Who Would Be King (1895)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Theft of the Bruce-Partington Plans'.

I

It was one of those idiosyncrasies of my time with Cas that two cases involving plans happened not just in the same year but almost one on top of the other, and were hence documented consecutively in my casebook files. Though the outcome of the second case came as a much greater shock than the first.

In explaining the events surrounding this case, I must first make the modern reader conversant with the circumstances that linked my friend Cas to a remote set of islands in the South China Sea. In the early years of the nineteenth century, it was not unknown for adventurers rich enough to afford their own mercenaries (the equivalent of the medieval baronial army) to go off and conquer some part of the world which they then ruled as their particular fiefdom. It was Imperial policy to tolerate these eccentrics as long as they toed a pro-British line, providing naval cover in return for not having to conquer and maintain the territories from distant London. The official phraseology for such entities was Undeclared Independents, although it was a common joke at the time that the initials actually stood for Useful Idiots!

Not long after the famous Stamford Raffles founded the great port of Singapore, another great explorer, Amadeus Bruce-Partington, had built his own little corner of England on the Stour Islands, a chain of little islands that consisted mostly of the capital, Bruceville, on the largest island, Partington (modesty not, it seems, being a family trait). The islands had been sufficiently far removed from anywhere of interest for him to remain unmolested, and he had lived out his life in peace. When he died, however.....

+~+~+

Cas was a creature of habit in many ways, so when he went to the gymnasium in the morning instead of his usual afternoon one day, I wondered at it. He was also gone for an hour and a half longer than usual, and whilst I assumed this meant he was having lunch there, it seemed a long time.

The answer came – literally – on his return to Baker Street. I saw his cab pull up, and raised an eyebrow as I hard him come in and start running up the stairs. I wondered what the emergency was, but before I could react, he was through the door.

“Dean!” he panted. “Need you! Now!”

Sex in the middle of the day was unusual, but I would do anything for my friend. Though I had not realized just how eager he was; he was undressed and on me before I was half done, almost ripping my clothes off and dragging me to my room. He all but threw me into the bed, and before I could say anything he was on me, still smelling of the sweat he had built up.....

I may have been no detective, but I could still put two and two together, and sometimes even make four. As Cas tried to wrap himself around me, I got it. He was scenting me, which had to mean we were expecting the sort of company that would know what we had been up to. Which meant Cas' family. I should have been annoyed at the presumption and using me like some sort of rag, but I knew how insecure he could get at times like this, so I just lay back and let him get on with it.

When I was finally reeking of Cas' alpha musk, he seemed to calm down and relax against me, his hand gently rubbing our cocks against each other. This was good, the sort of halfway house towards orgasm where we could both gather our breaths before the final ascent (we were not teenagers anymore, either of us!). He finally looked me in the eyes, and seemed almost apologetic about what he had done. I gently ran my hands up and down his arms, and kissed him on the lips.

“I understand”, I said quietly. 

“I should not have done that”, he said, seeming almost angry with himself. “I had no right.....”

“You are my mate, and you had every right”, I cut in. “Besides, I did not exactly try to stop you. Who shall we shortly have the pleasure of seeing from your family?”

He blushed adorably.

“Father”, he muttered.

“Then you had better take me before he arrives”, I grinned. “Want to make a thorough job of it, don't we?”

He looked at me with such gratitude that it nearly broke my heart. Though within two minutes I had lost the ability to register any further thoughts, as he eased himself inside me and pushed rapidly towards orgasm. I waited until he was most of the way there, then hissed “pull out!” to him. He looked at me in surprise, but did so, looking almost disappointed.

“On me!” I told him. He looked at me in surprise, but he quickly finished himself off, coming all over my chest. I immediately began to rub it in, drowning in his beautiful scent whilst he looked at me as if I were some kind of god.

“Let us hope he is on time!” I grinned, kissing my lover deeply before getting stiffly off the bed and reaching for my dressing-gown.

+~+~+

Like any great nobleman, Sir Charles took his son's mate's utterly wrecked appearance in his stride, though I noticed that he did sniff the air. Cas had scented me so thoroughly that the people in 221A could probably smell it!

The nobleman placed two slim brown files on the desk before speaking.

“I am to assume that you know Michael and Raphael are trying to get you disinherited?”

Cas nodded. We were sat around the table, the two of us notably close together. Thank Heaven that Cas wasn't doing anything under the table, at least this time!

“That is their right”, he said. “I presume they are waiting for you to pass on, then hoping they can somehow get rid of Luke first before turning their fire on me.”

“Most probably”, Sir Charles admitted, as if his sons trying to do each other over was the natural order of things. “I have been down to see Luke and Alfie, and I thought it was time I saw you. And your mate.”

I jumped at the appellation, correct as it was. There was the very slightest of flickers at the corner of Cas' lips. 

“You are welcome here”, he said. “As are Mother, Luke, Anna and their mates.”

Sir Charles nodded, and gestured to the files he had brought.

“There is certain useful information about the activities of both Michael and Raphael in those”, he said. “Should they move against either of you, you may feel free to use it. It may finish them, but it would be of their own doing. Raphael is possibly the greater danger; at least he had the sense not to voice his opinions of your lifestyle in front of his mother. My dear wife packs a mean right hook, as our eldest son discovered the hard way recently.”

I smiled at that.

“Thank you”, Cas said, taking the files. 

Sir Charles looked around the room curiously.

“Have you not thought of a house of your own?” he asked.

I had privately wondered that too, and had silently prayed for Cas to never even consider it. I had come to love 221B, and would never wish to leave it. At least not until I retired.

“Dean and I are happy here”, Cas said, taking my hand. “I see no reason to change what works.”

“Indeed”, his father said, standing up. “Then I shall wish you both good day.” He gave me a pointed look. “Take care of my son, doctor.”

And with that he was gone. I silently vowed that, whatever my feelings towards some members of his family, I would always take care of Cas.

II

It was perhaps typical that, just a couple of hours (and two celebratory orgasms) later, Inspector Henriksen called round to request our help in a case. He raised an eyebrow at the pungent scent in the room, and I thought I saw the slightest of smiles creasing his lips. Mercifully he refrained from commenting on it, moving straight to the business that had brought him here. And to the sponge cake which came up with our drinks, it being by an amazing coincidence one of Mrs. Singer's baking days (!).

“It's bloody rare for me to have one, these days”, he grumbled. “The Metropolitan Police Service seems to think that if we fill out enough forms, crime will grind to a halt. I swear, if the criminals had to put up with the paperwork we get through, they wouldn't have time for half the stuff they get up to!”

I smiled at his indignation. Cas' next remark, however, caught me off guard.

“How is Balthazar?”

The dark-skinned man stared at him in astonishment.

“Freaky mind-reading consulting detective!” he groused. “How the hell did you know?”

Cas gestured to the case he was carrying.

“Government documents have a distinctive colour”, he said. “And after his last visit here, my brother was left with the quite correct impression that he was no longer welcome at this address, at least until he improved either his manners or his attitude! Preferably both!”

He spoke sharply. The inspector raised an eyebrow, but did not ask.

“Yes, the chap asked me to approach you”, he admitted. “It's about the Bruce-Partington fiasco.”

There was a pointed silence.

“It has still not reached the papers?” the inspector said, clearly surprised. "Your brother was sure it would be in by today."

“Evidently 'it' has not”, Cas said. “Pray tell us exactly what 'it' is.

Henriksen nodded, managed to get sponge cake on his chin (the man was almost as much a grub as Cas) and began.

“The Stour Islands are one of those little corners of the Empire that are not actually in the Empire”, the inspector said, looking at his file. “Seventeen of them, three of which – Partington, Cherington and Stourton – are inhabited. Until now it's basically been a private fiefdom for the Bruce-Partington family, but with the death of Mr. Amadeus Bruce-Partington, his son Levi, who lives in England, is considering selling them to the British government.”

“Why would he do that?” I asked.

“Two reasons”, Henriksen said. “First, because he does not wish his son Joshua to inherit; I understand there is some bad blood there. Mr. Levi is a beta, and his son apparently thinks that because he is an alpha he should have inherited directly from his grandfather. And second, because the British government is considering the acquisition of a decent naval base in the South China Seas, especially given the instability in China right now.”

“So what exactly is the problem?” Cas asked.

“Three of the islands lie some distance from the chain, and not that far from the island of Formosa, which the Chinese recently lost to Japan”, the inspector said. “Stourton and two of the uninhabited islands, Great and Little Wolford. Brucetown, the capital of Stourton, has a small natural harbour which is just about large enough for a naval base, and the Japanese have been sniffing around it of late. Your brother says that whilst the British government is looking to keep friendly relations with the Land of the Rising Sun as regards British interests in the Pacific, they will not yield those islands.”

“The government was however prepared to cede ground in other areas. Hence on Monday, Mr. Levi Bruce-Partington returned to London from a trip to Scotland, and invited two government ministers to his palatial mansion, Shipston House, in order to discuss the handover. We even posted a policeman outside it, but somehow, that very night, the handover plans were stolen.”

Cas pressed his fingers together and thought for a moment.

“Two things immediately come to mind”, he said. “First, it is now Thursday, yet you have only now come to seek my aid. Why the delay?”

“Your brother was initially of the belief that the plans were stolen so they could be sold to either the Japanese or Chinese governments, who would then use them to extract further concessions”, Henriksen said. “But it seems that neither government has yet made contact.”

“Curious”, Cas said. “There can be no gain in delaying matters; quite the reverse, it seems. Who were the ministers attending the meeting?”

Henriksen looked at his Manila-coloured file.

“Lord Quimby, from the Foreign Office, and his secretary, Mr. Thaddeus Danvers. And Mr. Quintus Pulborough, also from the Foreign Office, but a specialist in Far Eastern politics.”

“And, presumably, a man with connections”, Cas said. “Intriguing. Why were they assigned a police officer?”

“The layout at Shipston House is a bit odd”, Henriksen said. “The road itself is quiet, but there is a public footpath along the edge of the grounds, and only a wooden fence to keep people out. I had three men posted on eight-hour shifts there to guard the study where the plans were kept; Wells, Bullivant and Keynes.”

“They do not seem to have done a very good job”, Cas observed.

“It was Keynes' fault”, Henriksen said morosely. “He claimed that the housemaid, a Miss Betty York, had been 'making eyes' at him. She denied it, of course! Anyway, he was talking to her at his post, and she said how cold it was. He opened the door, and someone had broke in through the glass window and taken the box with the treaty in it!”

Cas thought for a moment.

“Did no-one hear the glass breaking?” he asked.

“It was a professional job”, Henriksen said. “They coated the glass with some glue stuff, then pushed it in. It stayed in one piece, and they got through the door that way. If the maid hadn't have been so chilly, it might not have been spotted until later, even the following morning.”

“The plans were taken, though”, I pointed out. Henriksen nodded.

“Footprints were found leading to and from the public footpath”, the inspector said. “But I know it was an inside job.”

“How?” I asked. He grinned at me.

“I learnt some things from all those times with your friend here”, he beamed. “I took a close look at those prints. Nothing unusual at first; large boots, one track going from the wall, one leading to it. Except at one point.” He paused. “Just by the wall, the tracks overlapped.”

“So?” I asked.

“The tracks in were on top of the tracks out”, he said. “So someone walked from the house to the path to create a false set of tracks, then back to the house again to create the illusion of a burglar.”

“Very well spotted, inspector”, Cas praised. “Now, apart from Mr. Levi and his three guests, who else was in the house at the time?”

III

“No-one but the servants”, he said, “and worse luck, they're all accounted for. There are eight of them, but the butler was celebrating his fiftieth birthday, so Mr. Levi gave them all the evening off once dinner was out of the way. They're all each other's alibis. Except the maid who took up coffees, and unless she is a world-class athlete in disguise, there is no way she had the time as the rest of them all said she was gone for barely a minute. Not and got outside and back in again; there's no door leading out near where she walked.”

“So we are down to the gentlemen”, Cas said. “Let us consider the house owner first, as it is his property. Does he benefit in any way from the theft?”

“No”, Henriksen said firmly. “Far from it, in fact. There is the possibility that the government may back away from the purchase now, and he would get nothing. And he's a real patriot, so he would never sell to the Japs.”

I thought privately to myself as, since the original Mr. Bruce-Partington had taken the islands from their native inhabitants, him getting nothing was pretty fair. But I remained silent. Although I wished Cas would not look at me as if he knew exactly what I was thinking, even if he did.

“Lord Quimby?” Cas asked.

“He is a beta, about fifty-four and very sure of himself”, Henriksen said, almost disdainfully. “It may be possible that upheaval in that part of the world would mean more work for him, but his sort are in demand everywhere as it is. I don't like that omega of a secretary of his, though, Danvers. He is just a little too polished for my tastes.”

“What about Mr. Pulborough?” Cas asked.

“He may have some motive”, Henriksen said. “He retired from the government last year, but his expertise in the area led to his being called back. I understand he is being paid handsomely for his extra service, and you can never have enough money. I made some initial inquiries, and it seems that he may be in some financial bother; he inherited as a beta but faced an expensive legal challenge from an alpha younger brother, which he managed to beat off.”

Cas nodded, and paused.

“Victor”, he said slowly, “what are you holding back?”

It was, on reflection, about the only time I had ever heard Cas called the inspector by his Christian name. The man looked ready to swear.

“Damn and blast!” he said exasperatedly. “All right. The theft happened just after the changeover between Wells and Keynes. I've.... had some concerns over young Wells. There was some money from a case a few months back that went missing whilst he was in charge of the evidence room. I almost didn't spot it, but when I did, it immediately turned up elsewhere in the station. And I know the man is hard-up, with a young family and all.”

Cas nodded sadly.

“The perils of power”, he said. “It corrupts many who touch it, even police officers. Tell me, when the three visitors came went to Shipston, I assume they did not plan to stay the night, otherwise you would have included their valets in your list of servants?”

“They did not”, Henriksen said, “but they have since joined them. Your brother says that the government is kicking up a fuss and wants the whole thing sorted by this weekend, one way or another. And of course all three want to leave.”

“Governments want a lot of things”, Cas said. “Rather like children. Whether they should be given what they want is another matter entirely. But as it is still early, I dare say the doctor and I can make time for a trip to the house. Where is it, pray?”

“Notting Hill, a few miles from here”, the inspector said. “We could take a cab now, if you are ready.”

“For the British Empire?” Cas smiled. “Always!”

+~+~+

I would not like to have called Shipston House a Gothic monstrosity. It was far, far worse. It looked like someone had drawn up a list of the twenty most horrible things they could do to a building, and then condensed them into this one..... nightmare. The only redeeming factor was the screen of trees which doubtless spared the neighbours from having to see what had landed in their midst. If intelligent alien life saw this when they came to Earth, they would rightly be inclined to regard Mankind as totally beyond hope!

I had taken the opportunity afforded by the cab-ride to read the statements of the three men, and found that each had left the room at some point during the evening. The two government ministers had gone to use the water-closet, and Mr. Danvers had gone outside for some fresh air. My suspicions of the man only increased at that, and when I finally met him, I felt justified. He was basically a dark-haired version of Mr. Balthazar Novak, oozing a self-confidence that I hoped was unjustified. Lord Quimby was an amiable fellow who looked older than his years, and Mr. Pulborough a silver-haired gentleman who just looked bemused at the turn events had taken. 

Our host was a beta of about forty, fair-haired and short-sighted, by his spectacles. I expected Cas to interview them each at once, but he said he wished to examine outside first, as it was already early afternoon and the light could not be expected to last for much longer. I followed him out, noting that the three 'imprisoned' guests did not seem overly impressed.

“Let us consider the timeline”, Cas said, as we stood outside the window of the room from whence the plans had been stolen. “Dinner concludes at seven-thirty, and the men adjourn from the dining-room to this room, to look over the details of the plans. All four men are in the room, so there is no chance of anyone trying anything. Mr. Bruce-Partington places the documents in his brief-case, locks it, then leaves the room and locks that too. He is also the last man out. Constable Wells is on duty outside, and he has a key for emergency use only.”

“It must have been dark outside”, I said. 

To my surprise, Cas chuckled.

“The weather last Monday was clear skies”, he said, “and it was a Full Moon. Although it is unlikely at that time of the evening, our perpetrator would have risked being seen by anyone anywhere on that path. The break-in must have occurred some time between eight and ten, with the later hours more likely.”

“Why?” I asked.

“We know the maid could detect the wind coming through the broken window”, he said. “The constable on duty inside the house would therefore have detected it as well.”

“Unless he was the culprit”, I said.

“Hmm”, was his only response.

He walked carefully across the lawn to the fence by the footpath. I followed him easily enough; it was another clear night, and the Moon was still almost full. Cas sighed as he examined the area by the fence.”

“It is well for Henriksen that he closed this area off”, Cas said, looking at the police markers. “Possibly there may be another clue here.”

If there was, either he did not find it or did not share it with me. We returned to the house, where Cas intercepted one of the footmen.

“Tell me”, he asked, “has it rained here of late?”

The man looked horrified, clearly suspecting some inner meaning to the question. When Cas continued to stare at him however, he seemed to relax a little.

“Not since Monday afternoon, sir”, he said. “Before the robbery.”

Cas nodded, and walked on. I scuttled after him, wondering at his sudden interest in the weather. 

IV

Once he was back with the four gentlemen, Cas turned to our host.

“Mr. Bruce-Partington”, he said gravely. “I believe I am close to solving this case, although I must crave a further day's indulgence from you and your guests.”

“You know who stole the plans?” the man asked eagerly.

“No”, Cas said, “but I know a way to find out.”

“How?”

“Your rug.”

Mr. Bruce-Partington raised his eyebrows, and I suppressed a smile when his hand moved instinctively towards what was most obviously a hair-piece. Either that, or the aliens were already here and using a very poor disguise!

(Lord, but I was getting catty in my... middle age!)

“Pardon?” he said.

“More precisely, the quality Turkish rug in your study”, Cas said, and I knew from the twinkle in his eyes that he had phrased his statement quite deliberately. “I have seen one like it on a case before. Although they are all but invisible to the human eye, one reason that it maintains its radiance is that minuscule pieces of gold thread are embedded in it. I also know that it rained just hours before the theft took place. No matter how careful he was, the thief will still have a number of those thread ends stuck to his boots. Unfortunately I have not brought it with me, but I have a chemical solution which reacts with the thread when applied. I will return home tonight, and bring it with me on the morrow. Naturally I will request all of you to surrender your boots as of now.”

“This is most inconvenient”, Mr, Danvers grumbled.

“If it clears us all, I have no objection”, Lord Quimby said. “I assume you can return early tomorrow, sir?”

“As soon as I can”, Cas promised.

+~+~+

The next day, the three of us returned to Shipston House as promised. Henriksen had arranged for all three of his constables to be in attendance, since Cas seemed confident he could close the case. I noted however that the inspector seemed ill-at-ease for some reason. Cas had taken longer than was usual to pick him up from the station that morning, and the normally ebullient dark-skinned man seemed oddly depressed.

The study at Shipston Hall felt crowded with ten of us in it. Mr. Bruce-Partington had instructed his staff to pull out the folding-table however, and we all just fitted around it. Cas placed a large bag on the top, and paused.

“This case has been about money”, he said firmly. “It was perpetrated because the criminal thought he could obtain a large sum of money by selling a British government document to a foreign power. I would like to take this opportunity to remind you all, even though the documents were not yet government property, experienced legal counsel that I consulted last night informed me that it would still be regarded as treason, and that that the penalty for that offence is, quite rightly, death by hanging.”

If the air was not tense enough already, those words made it ten times worse. Cas opened the bag and extracted a large pair of boots.

“These are size ten”, he said. “They are also the boots worn by the criminal when he perpetrated the crime.”

“I am a size eight”, Mr. Danvers put in. Cas stared at him for a moment, then turned to Henrksen. 

“You learned some things from working with me”, he said, “and you did well to spot the fact that the footprints coming from the house overlaid the ones going to it. But there were also two things that you missed.”

He paused, the looked at the young and now clearly alarmed Constable Wells.

“When he consulted me on this case, your inspector admitted, reluctantly I might add, that he had certain worriesover you”, he said, his voice strangely calm. “He was also concerned because he knew, and only told me later when I challenged him over the fact, that of the seven men involved – Mr. Bruce-Partington, his three visitors and the three duty constables – you were the only person with size ten feet.”

He paused again.

“These boots, which match the footprints by the wall, were found in your locker last night. And on the base, there is a faint piece of gold thread!”

“Hah!” Mr, Danvers said. “Got you!”

Cas turned and eyed him sharply. The man took a step back.

“You are not the only person here who believes what they see”, he said. “I am sorry, Henriksen, but I must come to your two mistakes. First, the slight but noticeable irregularity in the footprints, where the pressure applied to each step varied as if the person walking was unsteadily for some reason. Either the person making the steps was drunk – and that was ruled out as they were in a straight line in both directions – or it was someone with smaller feet wearing larger boots. But why?”

“The latter was indicated, but in that case, it immediately threw a new light on the crime. Someone had not only stolen the plans, but had deliberately tried to incriminate Constable Wells here. Someone who had access to the police lockers, and could place the incriminating boots inside. Someone who was here when I mentioned the gold thread – which, by the way, I made up.”

V

Constable Keynes made a sudden rush for the door, but his fellow constables quickly restrained him, and with the help of the other men soon had him handcuffed. He glowered at us from the chair.

“Your execution of this plan was almost flawless”, Cas said coldly. “Indeed, one of the few things to give you away was the unreliable British weather.”

“The weather?” I asked.

“When he went off-duty at six o'clock that morning, Constable Keynes took the chance to lay the footprints to and from the wall for use that night”, Cas said. “Henriksen correctly saw that an inbound footprint overlaid an outbound one, except that that was entirely as the criminal here intended. It drew suspicion away from the outsiders, and pointed it at the gentlemen in the house. Few would suspect the policeman meant to be guarding the plans!”

“But the inclement weather betrays him. That afternoon there is a shower, and the subsequent damp weather prevents the water from ever evaporating. Yet if the footprints had been made after the rain as we were supposed to believe, there would have been a small but detectable splatter next to each footprint. There was none, so the prints were made before the rain. And clearly not long before, else there was the risk they might be detected.”

The prisoner growled, but said nothing. Cas continued.

“You arrived at the house before your duty began at ten o'clock. It was dark outside, although there was a Full Moon. Your knowledge of criminals enabled you to break through the glass window silently enough, without Constable Wells, who was on duty inside, hearing you. You took the plans, then went round to relieve him, hoping as it was late that the theft would not be discovered until the following morning, by which time you would have left for either the Chinese or Japanese Embassies. Indeed, the house had largely turned in to bed, but unfortunately for you an observant maid felt the cold air coming through under the door, and you had to 'go and investigate'.”

“The plans, Mr. Novak!” Mr. Bruce Partington said urgently. “The plans!”

“You won't find them!” our prisoner sneered. “They're long gone.”

Cas smiled. 

“I think not”, he said. “Doctor, I believe the time is approximately five minutes after ten?”

I looked at him, puzzled by the non sequitur.

“Yes”, I said uncertainly.

Cas strolled over to a large grandfather clock in the corner of the room, and only then did I notice that it was not working. He opened the panel door and reached in, extracting a rolled-up piece of paper, which he handed to Mr. Bruce-Partington. The man grasped it as if his life depended on it.

“When our villain was 'investigating', he realized that to have the plans on his person might be to invite disaster”, Cas said. “Since it would only take seconds to ascertain that the plans were gone, he had to find somewhere quickly. However, this fine old piece does not respond well to having official papers thrust into its works. It was his bad luck that, subsequent to the theft, he was never left with the key again as the room was a crime scene, and that there was a second constable placed outside as well.”

Henriksen shook his head in disbelief.

“Oh, and I suspect you will find that your villain was also responsible for that other past matter you ascribed to poor Constable Wells here”, Cas said. “For whom I have one final question.”

“Of course, sir”, the constable stuttered.

“Who knitted your socks?”

The man looked as if Cas was demanding the answer to the Meaning of Life.

“My s.. s... socks, sir?”

“Woolen garments, worn on your feet?” Cas said patiently, if a little sarcastically.

“My wife, sir.”

“Then you may tell her that she inadvertently helped clear your name.”

“She did, sir? How? Er, if you don't mind me asking?”

Cas smiled.

“I lied about the gold thread”, he said, “but I wished to actually examine the insides of those boots in your locker. The socks your wife knitted are plain green, whilst the standard police issue are dark blue or black. So were the threads inside your boots; I knew, therefore, that you could not have worn them, and that your 'colleague' – and I use the word advisedly – was setting you up.”

“Thank you, sir!” the constable said fervently. 

+~+~+

“A bent copper!” Henriksen said in disgust as we drove away from the monstrosity that was Shipston House. “Just like I thought – except I fingered the wrong one!”

“That is a peril of the job”, Cas said consolingly. “Policemen spend so long working with criminals, so they see that sometimes crime brings rewards, and also how to avoid detection. There will always be bad applies like Constable Keynes. You must ensure they do not turn the whole barrel bad. And in your position, you can do just that.”

“I didn't spot Keynes”, the inspector said morosely.

“But you knew something was wrong”, Cas countered. “And all worked out for the best. A pleasant little case.”

I agreed, little knowing that our next case would be far from 'little'.....

+~+~+

The performance of a play is the unlikely cause of a major and probably overdue showdown between Cas and a certain sibling in our next case together....


	5. Case 85: My Heart Will Go On (1896)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the The Veiled Lodger'.

I

I was often asked, most usually in the seemingly endless supply of letters that arrived for us both (all right, mostly Cas) at Baker Street, as to which was the most important case that Cas and I tackled together. There were several contenders for that title, but when it came to our longest case together, there was only one. This case started on New Year's Day and finished on Midsummer's Day six months later, even if the bursts of activity were few and far between. Indeed, I actually saw two of my works, 'Roadkill' and 'Party On, Garth', published in the Strand magazine during this time. And I had good cause to be thankful that Cas' father had been both generous and far-sighted.

Although I made myself promise not to tease my readers with further mentions of unpublished cases, I feel compelled to mention that, whilst dealing with this case, Cas was also called in on a major international case involving two major Friendly Powers (not with each other, in this instance), one which lasted for much of the year and involved the great man and myself travelling to three foreign capital cities. Regretfully I cannot give details, except to say that the case ended successfully, but that is why this case is the only one dated to the year eighteen hundred and ninety-six. I shall also add that there is no power on this Earth that could force me to divulge the events of that case, safe to say that they served to delay the much-expected Continental War.

+~+~+

It was New Year's Day. I was sat (a little painfully; Cas had seen in the New Year some hours prior with his customary gusto) at the table in our rooms at Baker Street, writing a note to my brother and his wife. They had taken their family to spend two weeks with Jessica's parents, from their eldest son's birthday to the New Year, and would be travelling back to Berwick tomorrow. 

“Your nephew's birthday was last month.”

I jumped. I had not noticed Cas putting his paper down, his blue eyes boring into me from across the room.

“Yes”, I said. “I do not send him presents because the general post lost one the single time I tried it. I just put some money in a separate bank account for him each year, and he can have access to it when he is twenty-one.”

Cas looked as if he was about to comment on that, but then simply nodded and went back to his paper.

“What is it?” I asked. I could see something was on his mind.

He turned back to me, and it was one of the few times I ever caught him looking uncertain.

“Would it be too forward if I gave the boy a gift as well?” he asked tentatively. “It's just......”

He seemed to grind to a halt. I smiled warmly at him.

“No child can ever have enough uncles”, I said. “Of course.”

“Uncle Cas”, he muttered, and I could see how affected he was despite his stoicism. “I like that.”

+~+~+

We had just finished finalizing the monetary arrangements when there was a knock at the door. It was Miss Harvelle, in charge of the house whilst her mother and stepfather had decided to spend the best part of six months touring the United States and visiting the latter's home town. There was a lady with her, whom she announced as 'Miss Millicent Lowery' before withdrawing. 

Our visitor was young, but had a sense of purpose about her. Cas guided her over to the fireside chair, and waited for her to be seated.

“Thank you for seeing me, gentlemen”, she began. “I should begin by telling you that I am friend of Miss Harvelle, and work in the library that adjoins her school. What concerns me is a small matter that is probably nothing, but she tells me that some of your most important cases have begun from such seemingly trivial matters.”

“That is true”, Cas said.”Pray, what is troubling you?”

She took a deep breath.

“It all seems so silly!”

“Let the doctor and I be the judges of that”, Cas gently pressed. “Go on.”

“Miss Harvelle and I are friends through the theatrical society that we both partake in”, she said. “We had decided that our next production was to be 'The Veiled Lodger'. Are either of you aware of the novel?”

“I am”, I admitted, blushing slightly when Cas looked across at me. “It is the first book by Mr. Charles Linbury-Smith, who writes with a similar style to Mr. Oscar Wilde. It is a horror story with a twist, about a man who becomes curious about a fellow lodger, a lady who always wears a veil, and tries to find out more, only to wish he had not.”

“What happens?” Cas asked. I blushed even more.

“The main character, an alpha, falls in love with the mysterious lodger, only to find that 'she' is in fact another alpha, a ghost of a man who disguised himself to hide out from his criminal colleagues”, I said. “The other criminals killed him in this room, and he is bound to it until someone uncovers his body, which is secretly buried nearby. The main character is shown where the body was hidden and the killers are caught. The body is buried with all the proper rites, so the ghost can finally be laid to rest.”

“And the twist?” Cas asked.

“The final scene is some months later, when the main character meets an identical alpha in a theatrical group”, I said. “The second man is wearing a veil, just like the dead one. The play within a play, like Shakespeare.”

“Indeed”, she said. “The theme is quite controversial, especially with poor Mr. Wilde in jail still. Two of our members said they felt uncomfortable with it, which is of course perfectly fine. However, since we began preparations for the play, strange things have been happening.”

“What sort of things?” Cas asked.

“Only very minor ones”, she said, “which is why I was reluctant to make an issue of them. Small things going missing, scripts that were safely locked away disappearing, that sort of thing. A book that I left in a drawer for one scene which was not there when I went to retrieve it.”

“Do you suspect either of the two people who withdrew from the play?” Cas asked. 

She shook her head.

“Maybelle Adams hasn't a thought in her pretty little head”, she said wryly, “and Simeon Watkins is her male equivalent! The members who agreed to put on the play are all keen to do it, but something about these happenings worries me.”

“Possibly with reason”, Cas said. “There seems little to go on at this moment in time, but I trust you will inform the doctor and myself immediately there are any further developments in your story?”

“I will do so, sir.”

II

“It could just be forgetfulness or chance”, I mused after our visitor had left. Cas shook his head.

“Miss Lowery is sharp”, he said. “She senses danger here, and I rather fear that she is correct.

+~+~+

Cas made some inquiries into Miss Lowery's theatrical society, but presumably nothing came of them because he did not confide in me. A Continental trip occupied us for some weeks, and we did not hear from the lady again until towards the end of February. 

Cas and I had returned from the Empire Theatre in Leicester Square, where we had seen a film entertainment by the Lumière brothers, a set of about a dozen short presentations, none more than a minute long. I must admit (because Cas would not let me publish this story unless I did!) that I, like many in the theatre, jumped violently at the sight of a railway locomotive rushing straight at us. And there was no need for Cas to look so smug! These 'moving pictures' would never catch on!

Miss Lowery was waiting for us in our rooms when we returned. She immediately presented Cas with a note.

“An anonymous letter”, she said gravely. “It came this morning. It threatens to burn down the theatre with us all inside it, if we continue with the play.”

Cas read the note and pursed his lips.

“Have you taken this to the police?” he asked. She shook her head.

“You have read it”, she said. “'The law cannot save the ungodly'. This is some religious madman we are dealing with.”

We all sat down, and Cas leaned across to Miss Lowery.

“Is there a date for the first performance?” he asked.

“That is another thing”, she said, sounding angry now. “The local theatre had promised us that we could start in April, but now the manager there says that they had a prior booking, and we cannot be fitted in until June. I think someone may have pressured him.”

“I can probably find out if they have”, Cas said. “May I ask how the cast members responded to this threat?”

Miss Lowery smiled.

“It had hardened our resolve, sirs”, she said firmly. “We will not be bullied out of exercising the right to free speech, just like Mr. Voltaire said.”

“And I shall work to defend your right so to do”, Cas said. “May I keep this note? I can do certain tests on it that may reveal some things.”

“Of course”, she smiled.

+~+~+

Two things should be said at this stage about my crime-solving abilities. Firstly, I had next to none. But secondly, all my time with Cas had made me fluent in 'Cas-ese', and I somehow knew the next day that there was something he had found about the note that had unsettled him. Worse, unsettled him sufficiently for him not to share it with me. It hurt a little, but I supposed that he must have had his reasons.

I did try looking at the note whilst he was out, but apart from the obvious fact that it was written on quality paper – there was even a fancy watermark in all four corners! - and that the writer did something unnecessarily fancy with his (or her) letter 'g's, I could see nothing. Though I had the weirdest feeling that I had seen that watermark somewhere before. Perhaps my writer's imagination was running away with me again.

I would probably have remained in the dark had it not been for a fortuitous circumstance in March which showed me part of what my friend had discovered. I had by this time quit regular work at the surgery, although I remained 'on call' to some of their most prestigious clients whom I had always tended, in gratitude for the place's help in my early years. I also remained friends with Doctor Peter Greenwood, and it was his younger sister Patricia, one of the few female doctors at the time, who called me in in this instance because one of her patients was being 'difficult' about being treated by a lady. I quickly conferred with her, then went to see this 'Mrs. Leonard'. 

It was whilst I was waiting to be shown up that I noticed the family portraits on the wall of the entrance-hall. Normally these would not have interested me in the slightest, except that one whole family picture included.... Cas? I squinted – I would have to bow to the inevitable and get spectacles soon – but it was definitely him. Looking harder, I recognized both Balthazar and Gabriel from the picture as well. It was a Novak family portrait.

All was made clear when I met Mrs. Leonard, who turned out to be the daughter of Cas' brother Raphael, she having recently married. She was pregnant with her first child, and apparently there were all sorts of difficulties she had not foreseen, including food cravings, sickness and putting on weight (in a pregnancy? Who'd have thought it!). I bit my tongue and did my best to calm her down, but I did promise to examine her whilst I was there, if only to reassure her.

It was whilst she was undressing behind the screen that I was standing by her writing desk, idly staring at the blank pad before it registered. I looked closer, and realized not only was the blank paper the same distinctive yellow-orange as Miss Lowery's anonymous letter, but the insignia in all four corners was the same. Indeed, I now recognized it for what it was – a heavily stylized letter 'N'. And that was not the only thing that caught my attention. There was a short handwritten note from 'Father' on the desk – and the single letter 'g' was the same fanciful scrawl as in the anonymous letter!

I do not know whether it was fortuitous or not that Mrs. Leonard sailed round from behind the screen at that moment. Somehow I tore my eyes away from the desk, and began her examination.

III

I mentioned my new patient to Cas that evening, and that she was, I supposed, his niece through marriage. I like to pride myself that few would have spotted the faintest of flickers in his eyes when I mentioned his brother Raphael. Was he the man behind the attempts to stop the play being shown?

In April there was a further delay, when the other play which had been booked to start the month before at the theatre Miss Lowery's group used had been booked for ten weeks, not eight. Our client was particularly annoyed as she had just had the posters printed with the dates on them, and now they would have to be partly covered over with the new dates. It seemed a small thing at the time, but events soon after showed it had not been. We were abroad for the remainder of that month and the first half of May, so the case slipped from my memory for a time.

+~+~+

“Cas!”

My friend looked up from his coffee, still bleary-eyed. I should have known better than to talk to him before he was fully caffeinated, but this was important. I read aloud from the article.

“'There was a major fire at the Garrick Lane Theatre last night, which has severely damaged the building during a performance of Love's Labours Lost by Mr. William Shakespeare'”, I read. “'Several audience members and two of the cast suffered injuries that were mostly smoke-related when a fire broke out in one of the back-rooms, and quickly spread to the rest of the building. Fortunately firemen from two nearby stations were able to save the theatre, and it is hoped it will soon be putting on plays again..'”

He looked thoughtful.

“The posters for The Veiled Lodger had already been put up, had they not?” he said.

I nodded. “And Miss Lowery had not yet got the extra sheets with the new dates on, so anyone coming to the theatre might have thought that that was the play that was going on inside.”

“Particularly if they came in the back, and did not see any of the actors”, Cas said. “This is becoming deadly serious. It is time we took measures.”

I little knew then what drama was about to result. And not of the theatrical variety.

+~+~+

The theatre itself came through the fire surprisingly unscathed, and with no structural damage, which meant it could reopen in June. Even better, the manager, a Mr. Heston Thacker, was found not only to have accepted money to delay the production of The Veiled Lodger, but to have posted a key to someone in return for a large cash payment. With no contact with his beneficiary, he had been unable to alert them to the over-running of the Shakespeare play, hence the fire. Unfortunately the address he had been given turned out to be an empty property, which presumably someone had been using as a blind, hence it proved impossible to trace who the money or the directions came from, but I did notice that Cas was now tackling this case with a renewed vigour, in spite of other calls on his time. I feared the worst.

+~+~+

The Veiled Lodger was scheduled to belatedly open on Midsummer's Day of that year. Two days before, Mr. and Mrs. Singer arrived back from the trip to the United States, with an unexpected guest. I have seen many variants on humanity in my time in 221B, but few were more variant that Mr. Ashland Lindberg, a sharp-eyed beta in his twenties with the most bizarre slicked-forward blond hair. I helped carry the returning couple's bags in, and was in time to see Miss Harvelle take one look at the newcomer and burst into fits of laughter, much to her mother's annoyance. Mr. Lindberg, thankfully, did not appear to mind, and he became the new resident for Room Two. He had even brought with him a phonograph, a strange invention which somehow played music, but mercifully not very loudly. Technology!

I had a growing feeling that a further assault on the theatre company would be made on the opening night, a feeling that only grew until we reached the morning of the twenty-fourth. Cas had, of course, taken preventative measures.

“I am expecting a visitor”, he announced that morning. “I would like you to stay, if you would, but not to take notes, at least until after they are gone.”

“Of course”, I said.

The morning then, predictably, dragged, and it was almost eleven before we heard a heavy tread on the stairs. Alone; unusually Mrs. Singer had decided not to have anyone accompany this person up. I wondered why.

The door opened to reveal a tall, heavily-set beta with raven-black hair and a grim expression. He looked vaguely familiar from somewhere, though I was sure we had (fortunately) never met. For some reason he threw a particularly nasty scowl in my direction before moving slowly to the fireside. 

“I will not sit”, he said darkly. “I do not wish to be here. What do you want, Castiel?”

My friend did not seen surprised by our guest's rudeness.

IV

“Greetings, brother”, he said.

“You are no brother of mine!” the visitor snapped. “Living this sort of lifestyle with...... that!”

He gestured towards me. I was lost.

“Raphael”, Cas said slowly, “unless you can conduct yourself in a civilized manner whilst in the presence of my friend, you may leave. But believe me, you will not like what happens as a result.”

His words were underlain with menace. I shuddered. Our visitor scowled at him.

“Get on with it!” he said curtly.

“You will tell your agents to cease their efforts to prevent the play from taking place”, Cas said firmly. His brother glared at him.

“Why should I?” he demanded.

“Continental and General”, Cas said, as if that explained everything. It did not, but it clearly meant something if the pallor that came upon our visitor's face was anything to go by.

“You only want to defend that bastard play because you're living that way with your 'husband' here!” he sneered. “Don't think we don't all know. If Mother and Father weren't so damn broad-minded, they'd have chucked you out years ago!”

“I do not think Father is broad-minded enough to forgive what you did”, Cas said. He pulled himself to his feet. “That is the deal. If one more thing happens to those actors or their theatre, then I will let Father know just what you did.”

“Rot in Hell!”

Mr. Raphael Novak was taller and larger than his brother, but as they squared up by the fireplace, it was the younger sibling who seemed to stand tall. I tensed, ready to leap across and defend my friend, but our unwelcome visitor gave a guttural snarl before turning on his heel and leaving, slamming the door behind him. 

I stared in astonishment, until Cas sighed and all but fell back into his own chair. I hurried over to kneel beside him, and he smiled at me.

“You suspected, didn't you?” he asked. I nodded.

“His daughter's house”, I said. “The notepaper matched her own, and there was a note from him in the same writing. Why did he write the notes himself, I wonder?”

“Rafe has always been a bully”, Cas said with a heavy sigh. I placed my hand over his, and smiled.

“What was that about Continental and General?” I asked.

“Some years back, Father decided to buy into that bank”, Cas explained. “Somehow Raphael got wind of his plans and bought in first, then sold all his shares just as Father's interest had forced the share price up. Father lost heavily, but Raphael had covered his tracks well.”

“Then how did you find out?” I asked. 

He hesitated.

“Those files Father brought me – us – last year”, he said. “He knew that either Mike or Rafe might move against me or Luke, so he gave us both some 'ammunition'. Of course her knows about Rafe's financial mis-dealings and Mike's.... well, sexual misadventures, but they both think he is in the dark. Which means neither will be able to do anything, even after Father passes. They would be too afraid that we might use the information in a legal defence, or worse, go to the papers with it. It would be social ruin for one or both of them.”

I nodded, but noticed how strained he looked from the encounter with his bigoted brother. I had an idea.

“We are going to see the play tonight, are we not?” I said.

“Yes”, he said. “Miss Lowery has secured us a box. Why?”

I smiled.

“I expect you feel somewhat soiled after that encounter”, I said. “What you need is a nice hot bath. Something to enable you to relax.”

The look he gave me was positively feral.

“If you are thinking what I think you are thinking”, he growled, “I do not think such a thing would be all that relaxing.”

“Well”, I sighed expressively, “If you would rather not....”

“You, naked, bathroom!” he almost snarled. I grinned and almost ran into our bathroom, and began to run the bath, making sure to add plenty of his bubble-bath under the tap.

+~+~+

We just made it to the theatre on time, and Miss Lowery was delighted to see us. The play was not overly long, so there would be no intermission, and we were shown straight up to our box, which was the second one back from the stage. It was almost pitch-dark except for the weak light thrown from the single gas-lamp, which Cas turned off as soon as I was seated.

The play itself was good, and I wished I could have empathized more with David, the lead character. However, I was more than a little distracted, both by the cock-ring that Cas had put on me (mercifully after our coupling before leaving) and the vibrator that was gently teasing my prostate throughout the performance. That and a smooth hand from a certain blue-eyed genius which had slipped slowly but surely past my waistband and had spent much of the play rubbing my cock, sometimes gently and sometimes faster. It was an exquisite torture, helped both by the fact that I was enjoying it and the look of contentment on my lover's face. But not helped by the prospect of a bumpy cab-ride back to Baker Street, since I knew Cas would not allow me to come until we were home.

“Dean”, he whispered quietly. 

“Yes?” I croaked, my eyes watering as his clever fingers teased my balls.

“I love you.”

Some inner instinct made me grit my teeth, and it was just as well for at that moment, my theories about being able to break a cock-ring were proven all too right. I cam all over Cas' hand, the he looked only momentarily surprised before smiling with pleasure.

“Not bad for a forty-four-year-old”, he praised. “I shall have to make sure the next one I buy is reinforced.”

I was too busy trying to get my breathing back to say anything, so I had no defence when I suddenly felt cold steel back around the base of my cock.

“You brought a spare!” I hissed, it sounding far too loud in the dark.

“I never underestimate my man!” he grinned. “Just as well. Now, let's see if we can get you back to where we were.....”

Yes, he was definitely going to kill me one of these days. But I would just have to come back as a ghost. I wondered if ghosts could have sex.....

+~+~+

The windswept wastes of Romney Marsh are the scene when, in our next adventure, Cas investigates something that has not been stolen....


	6. Case 86: Paper Moon (1897)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter'.

I

It was March of 'Ninety-Seven, a late winter's day in name and deed from the driving cold I had experienced during my morning walk (Cas had had a lie-in, as for once I had been the one taking the lead this morning, and I may or may not have been feeling slightly smug that for once it was I who had worn him out). I was reading about the latest French manoeuvres in the Sudan – they seemed determined to do the Germans' work for them, and break the undeclared Anglo-French alliance – when a voice cut into my thoughts from across the breakfast table.

“Dean. What do you make of this?”

Cas was holding out a letter, which bore all the hallmarks of many such that came to the house daily. I took it and examined it.

“Cheap paper”, I said. “Sent from Kent; I think the town of Lydd is somewhere in Romney Marsh, if I remember. The writing is very neat, possibly from a child.” 

I read it aloud:

“'Dear Mr. Novak and Dr. Winchester,

Please, do you have the time to investigate a small case for my grandfather? He is concerned that a portrait owned by his former employer has not been stolen.

Yours most respectfully

Edwin Hallott (Master)

Postscriptum: If you write back, please do so to my grandparents' house in the town, Cherry-Tree Cottage, as my parents do not know I am writing to you.'”

I looked across at Cas.

“I suppose you have started cases with less to go on”, I said with a laugh, “but not many. The boy does not exactly overburden us with facts!”

Cas shook his head.

“I rather think you underestimate young Master Hallott”, he smiled. “He has provided just enough information to tease, and to provoke the question as to why his grandfather is possibly delusional. He knows we must receive many similar requests each day, so he strives to make his stand out. I must admit, he has succeeded.”

“You are going to Kent?” I asked, surprised.

“Of course not!” he said firmly. When I looked surprised, he amended, “we are going to Kent.”

I smiled. In times past I would have objected at his assuming my readiness to fall in with his plans, but now.... now I wanted to spend every waking minute I had with the man.

Yes, the sleeping ones as well!

+~+~+

The journey to Lydd was a convoluted one, an express taking us all the way from Victoria Station to the little town of Ashford, most of the way there, before we had to take first one local train to Appledore, and then a second to Lydd itself. It brought back some slightly unpleasant memories for me; I had been to the area once before, during Cas' second absence, and had found it flat, wet and frankly unsettling (though it had matched my mood at the time well enough!). Fortunately the address that young Master Hallott had mentioned turned out to be close to the station, so as the weather was fine we opted to walk. 

Cherry-Tree Cottage turned out to be a well-kept little property in the High Street, with a delightful small garden and roses clambering up and down the porch. A grey-haired elderly lady was kneeling down and tending the roses, and slowly rose to her feet as we approached. 

“May I be helping you gentlemen?” she asked politely.

“I am looking for the grandparents of one Master Edwin Hallett”, Cas said. 

The woman's face took a decidedly put-upon expression. 

“What has the young scamp been up to now?” she sighed. “I'm Mrs. Sopwith, the boy's grandmother, and it's my husband Alan you'll be wanting. He's inside. Come you in.”

She led us inside to a main room that was as spick and span as the outside of the building. A silver-haired man was sat reading in a rocking-chair by the fire, but looked up as we entered.

“Mr. Sopwith?” Cas said. “My name is Mr. Castiel Novak, and this is my friend and colleague Doctor Dean Winchester.”

He looked at us uncertainly. 

“You were in the paper”, he said slowly. “Solving crimes and stuff. Young Edwin kept cutting all the bits out. Usually before I got to read them!”

“I should apologize for your grandson's over-eagerness”, Cas smiled. “He sent me a letter asking me to investigate a case for him. Concerning yourself.”

The elderly man looked astonished.

“Me?” he said querulously. “I've not been in any crimes. Have I, Mary?”

His wife chuckled, and turned to Cas.

“Did the young scallywag say what it was about?” she asked.

“Only that you were apparently confused that a portrait had, and I quote, 'not been stolen'”, Cas said. “I was intrigued. It is rare that I am called in to investigate where something has very definitely not been taken!”

The elderly man sighed.

“You had both better sit down”, he said. 

II

“I retired a few weeks back”, he began. “I used to work for old Lord Etchingham who owns Moonraker House, down on the coast. Wonderful place it is, looking over one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world, yet miles from anywhere. Peaceful.”

He looked wistful as he remembered. Cas smiled.

“Please continue”, he prompted gently.

“Lord Etchingham is an alpha but has no children of his own, his wife having left him for another man”, our host said. “And he's not been in the best of health these past twelve months; I offered to stay on if he wished, but he wouldn't hear of it. On his death the estate passes to his beta brother, Mr. William Moors. He himself has never married, so after he goes, the whole thing then goes to the third and last brother, an alpha, Mr. Edwy. He's quite a bit younger than his kin, and married with two boys and a girl, so the estate will be all right with him. Or that was what I thought.”

(I should add at this point that, at that very time, parliament was in the process of passing a law preventing younger alphas from challenging the inheritance rights of elder beta brothers. Not elder omegas, of course.)

“What made you change your mind?” Cas asked.

“I don't understand such things, but apparently land 'aint the money-spinner it used to be”, Mr. Sopwith said. “His Lordship's estate manager, an oily little beta called Aloysius Derrington if you please, persuaded him that the best investments were things like art, rare coins, stamps and such. I suppose there was some truth in it; the prices these things fetch in the papers make my eyes water!”

“You think Mr. Derrington is involved in what has happened?” Cas asked.

“I know he was”, the old man said firmly. “And there's another thing. His Lordship trusts the man for some reason, and I know that just after I finished, he had his lawyer up there to add something to his will. A codi.... something or other.”

“Codicil”, I said. “A legal addition to a will, signed and witnessed as the original.”

Cas looked at our host thoughtfully. He continued.

“I forgot to mention; Mr. William lives just down the road in Hastings, but Mr. Edwy went to do something in the United States last year, and hasn't come back yet. But the thing is, my grandson's right. Weird things have been happening in that house, and I was glad when my retirement came round in February and I could leave.”

“What things?” Cas asked.

“Last October – the twenty-second it was; I made a note – I couldn't sleep for some reason. I decided to slip out the servants' entrance and go round to get some sea air for a bit. The road up to the house comes up the side I was going to, and I was almost there when I saw something weird. It was a cloudless night and almost a Full Moon, so it was easy to see. Two men were carrying out a portrait from the house, and placing it in the cart – and Mr. Derrington was there watching them!”

“They drove off with it?” Cas asked.

“That was the thing”, our host admitted. “They were three to my one, so I didn't dare challenge them. I knew the painting all right; it was the one young Edwin called 'the Three-Quarter' when he helped me out one time, because it showed King Charles the Second not looking straight on or half to the side, but sort of in-between. It hangs in the main hall, and must be worth a fortune.”

“What did you do afterwards?” I asked. I was not prepared for the reply.

“Nothing”, he said flatly.

We both stared at him.

“The next day, I came out of the kitchen into the hallway – and there the damn thing was, large as life, in its usual place. I thought I must have imagined the whole thing!”

“That is always possible”, Cas said. “However, let us assume for a moment that you did not. A painting was taken out of the building, yet returned by the following morning. Interesting.....”

He pushed his long fingers together in thought.

“Mr. Sopwith”, he said, “you have made your opinion of both your former employer and Mr. Aloysius Derrington quite clear. I would be grateful if you would do the same for the characters of Lord Etchingham's brothers, Mr. William and Mr. Edwy.”

“Over twenty years of service mean I can do just that, sirs”, he smiled. “Mr. William is not someone I would care to trust with tuppence to do some shopping for me. It pains me to say it, but I think he cannot wait to get his greedy mitts on the estate. Mr. Edwy is a bright young thing for his age, a bit of a flibbertigibbet but his heart is in the right place, and I think he will make a much better lord of the manor. He married an omega over from the United States some years back, and that seems to have settled him a bit. A black man, which of course Mr. William made a lot of noise over.”

“A former slave called Lincoln, if you please”, Mrs. Sopwith added. “I met him at the village fête last year. Taller than Mr. Edwy, which was odd, but a very personable young man, and devoted to his children. And his alpha.”

Cas thought for a moment.

“Does Mr. Derrington live at the manor house?” he asked eventually.

“No, sir”, Mr. Sopwith said. “He cycles in every day. He has a house in Appledore, where you would have changed trains on the way down here. He did spend some days there when we were snowed in last Christmas, and I think His Lordship offered him rooms there, but I suppose he thought what with the coming change of ownership he might be forced out as soon as he was in.”

“Mr. William Moors would not keep him on as an estate manager?” Cas asked.

“That's the only good thing about Mr. Derrington”, Mr. Sopwith said. “He hates Mr. William something fierce. Don't know why, though.”

Cas sighed.

“Appledore”, he said. “A pity. I do not suppose you happen to know if he has any relatives living in the area?”

“His brother at Ashford, sir”, Mrs. Sopwith put in. “An omega called Eustasias, married but no children as yet. He came down with him once. A much more pleasant gentleman, in my humble opinion.”

“Interesting”, Cas said. “I must say, your grandson has presented me with a most challenging case. I can see what has happened here, but not why, and that is the important thing. Quite obviously one of two chains of events must have occurred to cause this, and we need to establish which before we proceed. Mr. Sopwith, you say that this non-theft took place on October the twenty-second. Have there been any further incidents?”

“Not that I know of, sir.”

“Were there any other unusual occurrences at the house during your last few months there?”

Mr. Sopwith shook his head, but his wife prompted him with a whisper:

“The paint!”

“Oh yes”, our host said. “Probably nothing, but just before the picture thing, His Lordship had some men in to repaint the entrance-hall and the gallery. Very finicky job, what with the paintings having to be taken down and all.”

“Were the paintings moved to another room?” Cas asked, his eyes alight for some reason.

“Yes”, Mr. Sopwith said. “Only His Lordship had the key. But they weren't painting anywhere near the Three-Quarter when I saw it being taken - or not; they were in the other room at the time. That's what made it so odd.”

“On the contrary”, Cas smiled. “It explains everything!”

III

Evidently it had not done so to the Sopwiths, who looked as much in the dark as I was. However, our discussion was interrupted at that moment when an alpha of about sixteen years of age entered the room without knocking. He looked in surprise at all of us, then beamed.

“You came!” he exclaimed.

“Master Edwin Hallott, I presume”, Cas said. “Yes, we came. And you were right. This is a most intriguing case.”

“Have you solved it yet?” the boy asked eagerly.

“Edwin!” his grandmother said reprovingly. The boy blushed at the reproof.

“I think I have”, Cas said, “but I need you to do something for me.”

“Of course!” the boy beamed. “Anything!”

“Be patient!” Cas grinned.

Edwin Hallott's face fell. 

“Why?” he whined.

Cas walked over and stood before the boy. Young Master Hallott was tall for his age, but like most teenagers he was all bones and angles. Even Cas' slender form dominated him.

“You will know from the doctor's books that sometimes, cases cannot be fully discussed because of the people in them, or certain facts that are difficult or embarrassing”, Cas said. “Yours, I think, will prove to be one such case. It may be some time – years, even – before the doctor can publish the events surrounding this case. But you have my word as a gentleman that I will let you know as soon as I can.”

The boy pouted a little.

“I don't have any of the books”, he said. The nearest place with a library is Ashford, and I don't get to go there often enough to be able to borrow them. I can only read them when mum and dad go shopping there.”

“Dear me, we cannot have that!” Cas said, looking vexed. “Well, as someone who has provided details for one of the doctor's stories, it is only fair that once that story is eventually published, you should receive your own copy, signed by both of us. Indeed, I am sure that if you ask nicely, the doctor may even be persuaded to forward you copies of all his books thus far.”

The boy looked hopefully across at me, and I nodded my acquiescence.

Wow!” he exclaimed.

+~+~+

“What did you mean about Mr. Derrington's house in Appledore being 'a pity'?” I asked later. Cas had hired a carriage from the town stables, and we were making our way up to Moonraker House. "And you did not say the same about the Ashford house."

“You saw Appledore when we changed trains”, Cas said, clicking at the reins, “even if the village itself was over a mile away from the station. What did you see?”

“Flatness”, I said. “And wetness. It is a marsh, after all.”

“Exactly”, he said.

This time, I was the one to pout. It didn't work for me, though. Again.

+~+~+

We arrived at the great house, which stood some distance back from the sea but with magnificent views up and down the English Channel. Cas presented our cards, and we waited to be invited up (or not). My friend rather oddly sniffed at three of the paintings in the entrance-hall before the maid returned, and we were summoned into the presence of Lord Etchingham himself. He was a tired-looking old man in a wheelchair, though he batted away the attentions of the nurse who was trying to re-arrange his blankets.

“Greetings, gentlemen”, he said. “Of course I have heard of you. May I ask what brings you to this remote part of our scepter'd isle?”

Cas bowed, and I did likewise.

“I wish to talk to you about certain events in this house of late”, Cas said. “It would definitely be beneficial if your estate manager were here as well.”

“Derrington?”, the old man said, looking surprised. “What do you want with him?”

“I would much prefer to discuss that solely with the two of you”, Cas said, eyeing the nurse who was quite clearly all agog. “As I am sure you know, sir, I often prefer to do things my own way, rather than to involve the forces of the law.”

The threat was faint, but implied. The old man looked at us for a moment, then instructed the nurse to fetch the estate manager and to take a break herself. She flounced off, clearly annoyed.

Mr. Aloysius Derrington was much as Mr. Sopwith had described him, clinically efficient but cold. Yet there was a note of care in the way he checked his master's blankets before taking the seat next to him, almost defensively. Cas clearly picked up on it too.

“Have no fear, gentlemen”, he said. “I know what little game you have both been playing of late, and I am sure that, if necessary, I could bring the whole thing to a halt. Yet I know you had your reasons for what you have done. Be honest with me, and I will deal fairly with you.”

“Speak on, sir”, Lord Etchingham said. I noticed his hand shaking slightly as he spoke.

“I must say that of the many crimes I have seen carried out in my time, this one was one of the best executed”, Cas said. “Had it not been for your recently-retired butler needing a breath of night air at precisely the wrong moment, you would probably never have been detected.”

“There has been no crime here”, Mr. Derrington said stoutly.

Cas raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“A deliberate attempt to disinherit a rightful heir?” he said with a smile. “Come, gentlemen, we do not need sophistry.”

The two men said nothing.

IV

“You, Lord Etchingham, feared for the future of the estate”, Cas said. “You knew the character of your brother William, and estimated – possibly correctly – that he would spend the estate on his own well-being, and leave nothing for your brother Edwy and the next generation. Your title goes back to the great Elizabeth, and you not unnaturally wished it to continue. Your brother had to be stopped – but how?”

“The house itself was safe, entailed as it doubtless is to prevent it being sold off except as a last resort. But the rest of the estate – a considerable sum of money – could easily be accessed by your brother William. Although he is only a few years younger than you, he might have years left to wreak havoc, and leave nothing but the house itself for Mr. Edwy when he inherits. You, showing a cunning worthy of the monarch who ennobled your ancestor, found a way to stop him.”

“You had an ally in Mr. Derrington here, a man who, though seemingly cold on the surface, is clearly committed to those ends he deems worth his loyalty. Your plan, may I say, was ingenious. First, you sold off your various land-holdings and purchased high-quality works of art, which you displayed in your home here. There was nothing unusual about that; land is a poor return just now, and many wealthy people are doing the same. But you went further.”

“It would of course have been easy for Mr. William, on inheriting, to have 'cashed in' all the artworks in his possession. Your plan made sure that that could not happen. You commissioned a high-quality faker to reproduce each of the works you had purchased, and on a set of nights the original artwork was taken from the house and the fakes put in their places. Your recently-retired butler was not unnaturally confused to see thieves taking away a painting one night, only to apparently see it back in its rightful place the very next morning! It was a letter about his apparent delusional tendencies from his grandson that brought me into the case.”

The nobleman smiled at that.

“There was also the small matter of the new paint, which has a smell the servants would probably have picked up on”, Cas went on. “But you covered that. By ordering a simultaneous repainting of the rooms where the paintings were, you made them think that what they could smell was the wall-paint, not the paintings themselves. Since the smell of paint is both unpleasant and pervasive, the risk was thereby minimized. I had considered at one point that Mr. Derrington was defrauding you by organizing the whole ramp himself, but only you could have ordered such a thing to have occurred at precisely the right time.”

“You seem to know almost everything, sir”, Lord Etchingham said heavily. “What do you intend to do about it, may I inquire?”

“At the moment, nothing”, Cas said.

Both men looked shocked. 

“Now that you have confirmed what I believed to be the case, I know that there has been no real crime”, Cas said. “The money will remain in the estate – I assume that once your brother passes on, Mr. Derrington will inform Mr. Edwy of the location of the original paintings, and the new Lord will be able to run his estate as he chooses. Let us hope he proves worthy of your efforts.”

“Thank you, sir”, Mr. Derrington said heartily.

“I have but one small question”, Cas said. “I know you could not store the paintings at your own house, because it is on the Marsh, and the environment at such a low level is not good for delicate artwork. You have a brother in Ashford. Are the paintings stored at his house?”

“Not quite”, Mr. Derrington admitted. “He owns a small garage next to his workshop, and they are there. Perfectly safe and dry.”

“Excellent”, Cas smiled.

“You have dealt most fairly with me, sir”, Lord Etchingham said in his slow tone, “and I would not hold anything back from you. There is one piece of the puzzle you do not have, although it does not impose directly on the case. Aloysius here is my blood; the illegitimate son of my first cousin, Henry Derrington. My great-grandfather Horatio, the sixth Lord Etchingham, was his great-great-grandfather.”

Mr. Derrington wrapped a possessive arm around his cousin.

“His Lordship stepped in when my own family dismissed me as a bastard”, he said harshly. “I owe him everything. And when he is gone, I will see his wishes fulfilled. That I do solemnly swear.”

“Then it is my pleasure to wish you both good-day”, Cas smiled. “And good fortune in your endeavours.”

+~+~+

Cas visited the Sopwiths before we left the area, and explained his findings to them, knowing that they would keep them in confidence. We then adjourned to the station, and our train back to London.

However, even the best-laid plans of mice and Cas are wont to go awra sometimes. Some minutes after our arrival, the stationmaster came out and told us that there had been a derailment just south of Ashford, and no trains could get through. We would have to wait for the next northbound train, which would then take us down to Hastings, and a much longer journey to London. I sighed in annoyance.

Eventually the train arrived, and of course we had to wait for the engine to run round for the journey south, which was another delay. But at least we obtained a compartment in the non-corridor train. Cas looked at me curiously as I all but fell into the seat.

“You have been a little off ever since we came here”, he observed. “Why?”

He was doing that curious head-tilt of his, and I smiled at him.

“I had a case down here during your 'death' absence”, I said, still shuddering at the memory. “'Ninety-Two it was; an important patient of the surgery's asked if I could spend a month with her heavily pregnant daughter, at least until the child arrived. They had a house in Camber, just over the border in Sussex but still part of the Marsh. I hated the place at the time, but it matched my mood without you.”

He nodded, and I was so lost in my thoughts that I did not notice him lowering the blinds until he spoke again.

“Then we had better make some good new memories to counter the bad old ones”, he growled, and with that Voice I went from zero to hard in seconds. He pulled me up, and was groping my backside when the train started with a jerk, toppling us both back onto the seat. He quickly manoeuvred himself from my grip and levered my erect cock from my trousers, then shrugged off his own trousers in record time.

“It is some miles to the next stop”, he said, squatting over me and positioning my cock at his entrance. “But let us not waste time.”

And with that me was pushing down onto me. I groaned in pleasure, my moans only increasing as the jerks of the train caused me to move inside of him. He let out a guttural growl, and reached down to kiss me.

“Go for it, Dean!” he ordered.

And on a South Eastern Railway train steaming merrily through the empty wastes of Romney Marsh, I did, thrusting into him and aiming straight for his prostate. I tweaked both his nipples simultaneously, then ran a hand down his chest before squeezing his cock hard. He arched his back and whined, then came violently, splattering both our shirts. The sight was too much for me, and I followed him over the edge, filling the man I loved.

I was too exhausted to do much more, and it was well for us that Cas had enough wits left to clean us both up and make us presentable before we reached Rye. Though even opening the window did little to alleviate the aroma of sensually-fucked alpha that permeated the carriage, and it was a good thing that there were no other first-class passengers to disturb our post-coital bliss.

+~+~+

Two months later, Cas was reading through his usual flurry of letters when he found one which seemingly amused him. I looked up at his chuckle.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Listen to this”, he said. “The new Lord Etchingham, having recently come into what he had thought was a prosperous estate from his late brother James, is shocked to find that someone has managed to replace all the valuable paintings in his collection with fakes. He demands that we go down to somewhere called 'Moonraker House' close by the English Channel, to investigate this horrible crime!”

I smiled.

“Will you take the case?” I asked innocently.

He pretended to think about it for a few moments, then shook his head. 

“I cannot possibly see how such a crime could have been effected!” he said. “And Romney Marsh is not a healthy environment, at all. No, regretfully I shall have to decline his request. What a pity!”

I laughed at his insincerity.

+~+~+

Postscript: The new Lord Etchingham did not live long to enjoy his inheritance, dying of the flu that same winter. I was thus able to follow up my package of all my books, which I had sent to young Master Hallott, with Cas' solution of the case, and a promise that when I got round to making it part of my canon, he would be receiving a double-signed first edition. I received a very pleasant letter of thanks in return. There is hope for the young generation, it seems.

+~+~+

A poisoning in a monastery led to our next case, and a death in a small Berkshire town....


	7. Case 87: Black (1897)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the Abbey Grange'.

I

One of the things I found puzzling about my blue-eyed genius of a lover was that he was sometimes strangely uncertain, especially bearing in mind some of our experiments in and out of the bedroom. I had concluded some time ago that he seemed to have a nagging worry that I might start to find him boring if he did not keep me on my toes, and seek comfort elsewhere. Frankly there was more likelihood of the Moon deciding to leave Earth and start orbiting Mars. I loved the man more than life itself, and I would never leave him.

Though on this particular day, I really, really wanted to kill him!

+~+~+

The day had started well enough. At least the first two or three seconds, after which my senses had kicked in and I had realized that I was tied face down to the bed, my morning wood rubbing fruitlessly against the sheets. And Cas was sat kneeling between my pinioned legs, slowly preparing me for what was to come. Me, with any luck.

Cas' desire to keep me interested in sex (there was no need, but the effort seemed to make him happy, so I graciously allowed it) had led the previous evening to me dressing up as a Roman gladiator, with leather cuffs around my wrists and ankles, a leather harness across my chest and what turned out to be a detachable leather skirt. There was no sword, but with Cas impaling me three times in rapid succession, I had not needed one. I must have passed out after the third time, for my last memory had been of his clambering over my back and kissing me to sleep.

And now I realized that the small loops in the four cuffs were to enable them to be tied to something, in this case the bedposts. Cas had detached the skirt but left the harness on, and the metal ring in the centre felt cold against my bare chest. I squirmed in vain, and he chucked darkly. 

“My perfect fighter”, he praised. “Dean, possibly from the Latin decanus, leader of ten men. And you are worth more to me than ten men, Dean.”

I blushed at the praise. He knew I did not take it easily, and it was most unfair of him to do this whilst I was not in a position to object. Or a position to do anything, much. 

He gently scissored me open, kissing around the harness on my back up to the thin leather collar. It was not thick enough to be mistaken for the omega-style collar I sometimes wore, but before putting it on he had shown me the engraving inside that stated 'Property of Castiellus Novacus', and as always offered me the chance to refuse. As if! This man owned me more fully than any of those long-vanished Romans had ever owned their slaves.

I felt the gentle pressure of his cock-head at my entrance, and braced myself. But nothing happened. I turned my head, trying to send him a sideways glare.

“Cas!” I moaned.

“Do you really want this?” he teased. “Or should I just drive you to the edge, then leave you there?”

My eyes widened. Part of me was horrified at the thought, whilst another part – mostly the one aching hard against the sheets – jumped at the idea. He chuckled darkly, then placed another strip of leather on the pillow next to me.

“I am going to fuck you until you come, Dean”, he said casually. “Then I am going to put this on you, and you are going to wear it and the uniform beneath your normal clothes all day.”

I gulped.

“It is designed to break if you get too hard”, Cas said, and I could hear the smirk in his voice. “But if you can keep it intact all day, there will be a reward tonight.”

He slipped into me and began to pound my prostate mercilessly. I let out an angry growl, and resolved that I would do this. Hell, a quiet day in Baker Street working on my writings, and all I would have to do would be to ignore Cas trying to provoke me. I could do that.

I came violently into the sheets, and he followed me almost immediately, slumping down inelegantly on top of my trapped body. Yes, I could do this. I was sure I could do this.

Probably.

+~+~+

Which brought me to where I wanted to kill the blue-eyed genius. Barely thirty minutes after we had emerged from his bedroom, the leather chafing beneath my clothes, Cas had told me that he had a new case. I knew immediately that this must have been the telegram that had arrived late the previous night, which meant that the bastard had planned this torture all along. Even worse, the case demanded Cas' immediate presence in west Berkshire, over an hour's bumpy train-ride from London. 

Yes, I was going to have to kill Cas. Later.

The train-ride was not helped by the fact that, even though it was June and summer was only a couple of weeks away, the country was beset by strong winds, and the train was rocking somewhat alarmingly as it bowled its way through the Berkshire countryside. We were on our way to the small market town of Stevedon, at the request of the local police sergeant, the wonderfully-named Wilberforce Chevalier. The crime he had asked us to come and investigate was almost as strange as his name.

“Why would anyone try to poison an abbey full of monks?” I mused, as I read through the railway's short guide to the town. “It is surely a crime without motive.”

Cas looked at me hungrily, and I was sure I felt the leather around my cock groan under the strain. It was going to be a long day.

“There is always the possibility that we are dealing with a madman”, Cas admitted, “but few crimes are truly without motive. And even to the madman, his actions usually make some sort of sense.”

“But monks!” I said. “Really?”

“Is there anything of interest about the place in your guide?” Cas asked.

“A bit”, I said. “Stevedon was a Saxon town, acquired a castle under the Normans, and had a minster church that evolved into an abbey. It remained important until it fell foul of that blackguard Henry the Eighth, the abbey being sold to one of his followers who mostly knocked it down and rebuilt it as the Abbey Grange. It was almost immediately purchased by Henry Duke of Garsdale, but his descendant Duke Louis fled with James the Second in sixteen hundred and eighty-eight, and it passed to some cousins of theirs, the Horsingtons, who have held it ever since. About twenty years the current Lord Horsington, the first Catholic to ever hold that title, sold some of the old outbuildings to an order of monks who have set up a new abbey there.”

“And the town?” Cas asked.

“Gone downhill since”, I said. “Lost its castle in the Civil Wars and got sacked by both the Roundheads and the Cavaliers, got sacked again in the Glorious Revolution by the Dutch, was by-passed by the Great West Road, and then passed on the chance offered by Brunel for them to become the Great Western Railway's main works town. Brunel went to Swindon instead, and Stevedon became a rural backwater.”

II

When we reached the town however, I wondered if it had chosen badly or not in its transport-related decision. Its isolation had left it a quiet place, redolent of an England which seemed to belong to another age. I had grown up next to the railway in Northumberland, but from the times I went to Bamburgh, I had seen what a difference it made when 'progress' did not come through. Had Stevedon chosen well, or ill? It was hard to say.

I had visualized the Abbey Grange as being out in the country, away from the town itself. It came as something of a surprise that it was quite the opposite. An unimpressive archway leading away from the High Street between the Tar and Feathers Inn and a solicitor’s led to a second archway, beyond which we found ourselves in some sort of stable-yard. A smartly-dressed beta in a black suit that looked somewhat out of place in this country town approached us. He looked decidedly unwelcoming, I thought.  
   
“Greetings, sirs”, he said tersely. “You are aware that this is private property?”  
   
His tone very much implied he hoped we had not been.  
   
“We are here to see Sergeant Chevalier”, Cas said politely. “At the Abbey. We were led to understand that this is the way in?”  
   
The man looked at us consideringly.  
   
“This is the back entrance, sirs”, he said. “This ground is the property of Stevedon Abbey, but the Grange owner has right of passage across it. The main entrance to the big house is off West Street.”  
   
“As we are here over a small matter of the majority of the brothers being poisoned, it is clearly the Abbot that we need to see”, Cas said. “Who are you, sir?”  
   
His tone was not rude, but it was as dry and unwelcoming as the one in which we ourselves had been addressed. Our inquisitor seemed more than a little surprised to have his attitude thrown back at him.  
   
“Mr. Sirius Furness, sirs”, he said. “Estate-manager to Lord Horsington, owner of the Grange. The Abbey entrance is that blue door, over there.”  
   
Cas nodded his thanks, and we left the man standing in the middle of the yard. A knock at the door, and we were admitted into the old building, where we found the Father Abbot and Sergeant Chevalier waiting for us. The Abbot was a small elderly alpha, seemingly worn down by his many years in office, whilst the sergeant was the opposite, a muscular alpha of about thirty years of age, who seemed to fill the room with his sheer size. It struck me at the time that he would have been better fitted to being a crusading knight of old rather than a country policeman. When he spoke however, it was with the typical slow Wiltshire burr.  
   
“We both appreciate you coming down, sirs”, he said. “This may be something and nothing, but that fact that it happened where it did has got people talking. We would both like it cleared up as soon as possible.”  
   
“You were quite vague in your letter”, Cas said. “Although I must say, the idea of an ‘accidental mass poisoning’ did arouse my curiosity.”  
   
“I thank you for coming”, the Abbot said. “My name is Dunstan, and I am the father of the seventeen brothers in this establishment. I only hope you can establish what happened, as the sergeant here is fearful that it may be a precursor to something worse.”  
   
Cas and I both looked at the sergeant curiously.  
   
“Policeman’s instinct”, he said shortly. “Something about this smells, and it’s not just the sage and onions!”  
   
“We seem to be getting ahead of ourselves”, Cas smiled. “Let us start at the beginning.”  
   
+~+~+  
   
A brother brought us the traditional bread and wine, and Father Abbot waited until he had gone before commencing.  
   
“It was on Friday”, he began. “It was a normal day in every way until the drama that befell us after dinner. There was fish, of course, and potatoes served with herbs. Dinner was barely finished before all the brothers in the dining hall started feeling very ill. The town physician, Dr. Strange, was called, and he quickly established that they had all been poisoned.”  
   
“Poisoned?” I asked. He nodded.  
   
“Belladonna, or deadly nightshade”, he said. “Some had apparently sprouted amongst the herbs, and been picked in error. Unfortunately Brother Demetrius, who normally supervises the herbarium, has been ill of late, so his replacement must have been careless.”  
   
“Were there any casualties?” Cas asked. The Abbot shook his head.  
   
“Mercifully none”, he said. “Three of the brothers were worse than the rest, and Brother Honorius in particular was very sick, but they all survived, thanks be to God. It seemed like a tragic error.”  
   
“I am not inclined to believe that it was an error”, Sergeant Chevalier said firmly, “tragic or otherwise. I spoke to the two young brothers who picked the herbs, and they were both adamant that there was only sage in their baskets. I have looked at both plants, and there are definite differences.”

I rather liked this policeman. He definitely seemed to know what was what.  
   
“It is possible that the two would not wish to incriminate themselves”, Cas mused. “Still, let us assume for a moment that you are right, and this was deliberate. Was everyone poisoned?”  
   
“All the brothers who were here, except for three of us”, Father Abbot said. “Myself – I was dining at the Grange that evening. Brother Richard, the prior, who was working on some documents in the town library, and had ordered sandwiches for his return later on. And the cook himself, Brother Michael, who always eats after everybody else.”  
   
Cas nodded.  
   
“Please tell me about the Grange”, he said.  
   
“It has been in the Horsington family ever since the Revolution of 1688”, the abbot said. “Lord Giles is the current holder, and is not in good health. We had thought he was the last of the line, but last year he found a distant cousin, Mr. Alexander Hill, who is now his heir.”  
   
“You seem disappointed at that”, Cas observed shrewdly.  
   
“Back in 1704, the then-Lord Horsington wrote into his will that the Church would get the lands back if the family’s male line ever failed”, Sergeant Chevalier said. “That looked quite likely until the sudden advent of this foreigner.”  
   
The abbot blushed.  
   
“The family has been very generous”, he said defensively. “These buildings were the old outhouses and stables to the Grange, but when Lord Giles inherited, his first act was to gift these buildings back to the Holy Church.”  
   
I noted the use of the word ‘back’.  
   
“How has Lord Giles responded to the incident?” Cas asked.  
   
“He sent his own doctor down to help”, Father Abbot said. “He could not have been more helpful.”  
   
I was sure that I could hear the implied ‘and so he should have been’ in there somewhere.  
   
III  
   
Cas decided that he wished to see the herb-garden from which the deadly dinner had been gathered, and we were shown there by Brother Joseph, Brother Demetrius’s main replacement during the latter’s indisposition. Cas questioned the omega closely on various herbs around the small enclosed garden, but he definitely seemed to know what he was talking about. Certainly much more than I did, though that was probably not saying much. Belladonna was grown in the garden for medicinal purposes, but Brother Joseph showed us that it was in an isolated part of the garden, to which only Brother Honorius, the herbalist, ever ventured. All the other monks knew full well that even touching some of the herbs grown therein without protection could bring illness or even death.  
   
We decided to adjourn to the Coach and Horses, the other major tavern in the High Street, for lunch. Cas' smirk at my obvious discomfort was not helping matters, and I went to the toilets to adjust myself a little. His quirking an eyebrow on my return was just asking for it.

Sergeant Chevalier joined us just as we were finishing, but declined a drink as he was on duty.  
   
“I could not say as much in front of the Abbot”, he said, “but I do not like his prior, Richard. Although I do not see any motive for his attempting to kill an entire abbey full of his own brothers!”  
   
“Let us start by restricting ourselves to facts”, Cas said. “No-one has died. That may have been the intention all along.”  
   
“Someone wanted to make a abbey full of holy men sick?” I said dubiously.  
   
“Tell me about the people at the Grange”, Cas said. “I noticed that the restored Abbey is a Catholic institution, the same religion as the current Lord Horsington.. What of the others involved?”  
   
“Well, Lord Giles is an alpha, and about as Catholic as they come!” the sergeant said firmly. “Pays for masses and everything. Until this distant relative rolled up, I believe he would have been perfectly happy to have the lands returned to the Abbey on his death. But Mr. Hill’s advent has changed everything.”  
   
“It is rather strange”, Cas mused. “And timely. With the succession unclear, the abbey could have inherited, and possession is an important factor in the law. What is Mr. Hill like?”  
   
“Australian, from New South Wales”, the sergeant said. “Two of Lord Giles’s cousins went over to Australia some years back, and he is the one that came back. The other one got shot over a claim to a gold-mine; a violent country, I’d say. Mr. Hill is an alpha and Church of England, but not overly religious. There have been rumours that Lord Giles wished him to convert, although he could not make his inheriting the estate dependent on that.”  
   
“We were fortunate enough to meet the estate-manager earlier”, I said dryly. “He was not exactly welcoming.”  
   
“Mr. Furness depends on Lord Giles for his job”, the sergeant said. “It is said that he and Mr. Hill do not see eye to eye over the future of the estate. I very much suspect that Mr. Furness will shortly be looking for alternative employment!”  
   
“And Mr. Furness is Church of England?”  
   
“He is”, the sergeant confirmed. “Very High Church. That is yet another point of tension between them.”  
   
“It is all very odd”, Cas said. “We have a crime committed without any apparent motive, and in the wrong place.”  
   
“The wrong place?” I asked.  
   
“If there were a poisoning at the Abbey Grange, I could understand it”, Cas said. “But in the Abbey itself – it makes no sense.”  
   
His words were to prove horribly prophetic.  
   
+~+~+

Cas, the bastard, spent the whole return journey teasing me, so much that when we finally made it to Paddington, I could barely walk along the platform with my erection. But I had made it thus far, and I was determined to succeed.

Except I had forgotten that we still had a bumpy cab ride back to Baker Street. That and Cas' constant possessive growl proved my undoing, and almost within sight of the the house, I felt a sudden wetness across my chest, and a piece of broken leather flapping about in my trousers (Cas had insisted I don no underwear, the bastard). I moaned in disappointment.

“So close”, he muttered. “Never mind. Perhaps I can offer you a small consolation prize.”

I perked up – at least until I discovered that he had been talking quite literally. There was a large apple-pie which he had ordered in, and he cut me the tiniest slice imaginable before helping himself to a large piece, and eating it in front of me. And as usual, my pouting had no effect on him. Life was unfair!

All right, he let me have the rest of the pie, but it was still unfair!

+~+~+  
   
Exactly one week later, Cas and I were once more on our way to Stevedon. There had been a second poisoning, this time at the Abbey Grange.  
   
And this time, someone had died.  
   
IV  
   
The poisoning had happened on Wednesday, and Sergeant Chevalier had requested our presence as soon as possible. Cas had surprised me by responding that we were currently finishing a case (we were not) and could not come immediately, but expected to come down on the first train on Friday morning, which we were now on. He had used the intervening Thursday to do some thorough research into the Horsingtons, to what end I did not know. Finally however we were on our way, the train thankfully rather smoother than the week before. And I had no 'distractions' to torture me – well, apart from the usual blue-eyed light of my life.  
   
We met Sergeant Chevalier at Uffington Station, and he took us directly to the Abbey Grange and the study of Lord Giles. The man seemed to be in shock, wrapped as he was in copious blankets on his couch.  
   
“This is terrible!”, he muttered. “And it is all my fault!”  
   
“How so, sir?” Cas asked plainly.  
   
The nobleman looked at him.  
   
“Last week”, he said, in a tone little more than a whisper. “I received a letter from someone in Australia. They claimed that the man calling himself Mr. Alexander Hill was, in fact, an impostor. My cousins were both killed in the argument over that mine, and Mr. Hill was the one that killed them! And that he had subsequently assumed one of their identities and come to England.”  
   
“What did you do with the letter?” Cas asked.  
   
“I threw it into the fire, of course!” the nobleman said angrily. “Scurrilous nonsense! But I kept wondering….. so when I went to confession with Prior Richard on Wednesday, I told all to him. He asked me how I felt about it, and I…I….”  
   
He stopped, looking totally wretched.  
   
“You did what?” Cas prompted.  
   
“I asked God to send me a sign!” the nobleman said. “And at dinner that same evening, my cousin – or whoever he was – was poisoned!”

I had hard work to suppress a laugh when I caught Sergeant Chevalier's face. It quite clearly said 'God give me strength!'. 

We managed to extricate ourselves from the blabbering nobleman, and the sergeant took us into the dining-room where the poisoning had happened. There was a massive portrait of a smartly-dressed nobleman from the last century having on the wall, staring down disapprovingly at us all. Either that, or he had had the wind when he was being painted.

“The first Lord Horsington, who inherited the estate in 1688”, the sergeant explained. “A bit of an eccentric; he was the one who promised the land back to the Church if his line ever failed. I suppose having fathered six sons, and even more on the wrong side of the blanket, he thought the line was secure.”

Cas looked at him quizzically.

“You seem highly conversant with the family history”, he observed.

“You have to know the important folks round here, so you don't tread on the wrong toes”, the sergeant said. “You seem to find that picture interesting.”

“I do”, Cas said. “You mentioned those born on the wrong side of the blanket, as you call them. Would not they be barred from inheriting?”

“Not if all the legitimate lines were exhausted, and they were alphas descended through a pure alpha line”, the sergeant said. “I have to say it rather looks as if the Church will get its land back now – unless another heir pops up out of nowhere!”

“Or someone pretending to be such”, Cas said. “Let us return to Wednesday night. What was the precise sequence of events, please?”

The sergeant flipped open his notebook.

“Lord Giles spent the afternoon reading in his room”, he said. “Prior Richard visited him shortly after four, bringing a herbal rub, as well as some supplies for the kitchen....”

“Supplies?” Cas cut in.

“His Lordship obtained his herbs and spices, as well as some vegetables, from the Abbey”, the sergeant said. “It was part of the deal for them having the land, a sort of rent, I suppose. That, according to the local doctor, was what got Mr. Hill. The meal that night was roast beef with potatoes and vegetables, and the sage that the cook used must have been from the same batch that poisoned the monks the week before. Damnation, I should have remembered that some might have found its way up here!”

“Was not His Lordship poisoned?” I asked.

“He ate little that night, and he did feel poorly afterwards, but nothing serious. He was still distracted by his letter.”

From the week before, I thought. Odd.

“And no-one else came to or left the house that day?” Cas asked.

“Oh, His Lordship did go out for a walk before dinner”, the sergeant said. “It was when Mr. Hill came back from a visit to Swindon; he said he wished to avoid talking to him, given what he'd just read. He said he went over Fairlee Woods.”

Cas smiled.

“That is important”, he said firmly. “The doctor and I have some calls to make in the town in connection with our inquiries, but I see a definite set of possibilities here. If all goes well, you may have your town jail occupied by the end of the day, sir.”

V

Our first call was to Doctor Strange, who had examined the body after the death. The beta seemed more than a little wary of us.

“Are you doubting my findings, gentlemen?” he inquired, somewhat testily.

“Not at all”, Cas said smoothly. “I do have two questions, however, which may help me to solve this matter. First, what alcohol did Mr. Hill imbibe shortly before dying?”

“His Lordship served a rich red wine from Spain with dinner”, the doctor said. “He provided me with the decanter which I of course had tested. It was negative. The only poison was in the herbs. I am sorry.”

“Indeed, that is what I hoped you would say”, Cas said, to the man's evident mystification. “My second question is more personal, and I will understand if you feel unable to answer it. For how long has Lord Giles suffered from his heart condition?”

The doctor balked.

“He told you about it?” he said dubiously.

“No”, Cas said. “It is my business to know things, usually things people would rather I did not know. I merely wished to confirm that. Thank you for your time, doctor.”

He ushered me out of the room. I turned to him.

“How did you know Lord Giles had a heart condition?” I asked. “I would have needed an examination to confirm that? Unless you think someone may try to poison him next?”

“My thoughts were not in that direction”, Cas smiled. “Though his condition may become all too relevant if one of our next ports of call yields the results I expect.”

As well as its two taverns, Stevedon High Street had two restaurants, but Cas apparently did not find whatever he was looking for in any of them. That was until an omega barman in the Tar and Feathers (who looked at Cas in a most unbecoming manner, I might add!) suggested he try the Navigation Inn, which lay just under a mile north of the town where the main road west passed by. Cas indulged me with a carriage ride, and after a short time inside he emerged looking triumphant.

“The case is closed!” he said firmly. “And it will give me great satisfaction, based on what I discovered about the family yesterday, to bring the perpetrators to book.”

“Perpetrators?” I asked. “More than one?”

“Two people were involved in this crime”, he said. “Come, let us fetch Sergeant Chevalier. I think he will be more than pleased with what I have discovered.”

In light of what happened next, Cas' statement proved quite correct.

+~+~+

There were seven of us in the dining-room at the Abbey Grange, as the setting sun gave the room a golden tinge. Lord Horsington sat at the head of the table, with his estate manager Mr. Furness on his right, and Doctor Strange on his left. Father Abbot and Prior Richard were sat down one side of the table, and I sat opposite them. Sergeant Chevalier stood by the door, his huge presence a reassurance bearing in mind Cas – stood directly opposite our host – was about to accuse someone (or some two) of murder.

“This crime was extremely well planned”, Cas began. “Until approximately one week ago, our chief protagonist had no intention of committing murder, although he was already entertaining certain doubts about the victim, Mr. Alexander Hill.”

He turned to the sergeant.

“I am afraid I told you a small lie to begin when you asked for my help on Wednesday”, he said. “There were two matters about this case which I wished to clarify, and both involved some in-depth research and calling on my brother for help, which was why I needed an extra day before coming down here. I was able to establish that the claims made in the letter that Lord Horsington received recently were genuine. Mr. Alexander Hill was, in fact, Mr. Bruce Walroy, a wanted Australian felon, and almost certainly the man who murdered both the potential heirs to the Abbey Grange.”

“I knew it!” Lord Horsington muttered. Cas turned to him.

“But you yourself were not strictly truthful, my lord”, he said firmly. “Even though you did entertain doubts about Mr. Hill's veracity, a mere letter alleging him to be a liar would not be enough to persuade someone like you. I spoke to your butler, and he told me that the letter you received at that time was in fact a heavy sheaf of documents. Whoever sent them to you included proof that Mr. Hill was an impostor. You omitted that fact.”

“Didn't want to look more stupid that I already was”, the nobleman muttered, red-faced.

“Hmm”, Cas said. “Let us consider what happened next. You are weak, sir, and you knew full well that if Mr. Hill found out you were checking up on him..... well, accidents can happen, can they not? So you sought help. You went to Prior Richard in the confessional and you told him all.”

The prior looked disdainfully at Cas.

“I am sure you know”, he said starchily, “that the seal of the confessional is sacred.”

“I do indeed”, Cas said. “Religious orders are rightly granted certain privileges, so they can function as they do. But those privileges do not extend to murder.”

There was a stony silence in the room. Cas paused before continuing.

“The two of you hatched a plan, but as neither of you were medical experts, you decided to try it out first. Prior Richard placed some sprigs of belladonna amidst the herbs used for his fellow brothers' evening meal that same day. That way, he could test to see the reaction to a dose of that size. He knew which brothers tended to be slightly greedier, and watched for what would unfold. Fortunately, no-one dies, and he knows that the dose he used was safe. Unfortunately the meddlesome local sergeant calls in a renowned private detective from London. Suddenly, and not just because of Lord Horsington's ailing health, speed is of the essence.”

“You waited a few days for the hue and cry to die down, then arranged for Prior Richard to come to bring your regular supply of herbs and spices”, Cas said. “Not something, I found out, that the prior would usually do, he preferred to delegate the task to a subordinate. He called on you first, and one of the bottles he was carrying contained the same sage-infested belladonna that had poisoned the brothers the week before; most would think it just unlucky that that one bottle evaded detection. Except the two of you were not trusting to luck.”

He turned to the doctor. 

“Lord Horsington called on you, and said that a servant had dropped his bottle of heart-medicine”, he said. “You provided him with a replacement immediately.”

“I did”, the doctor said warily. “How do you know?”

I suddenly saw it.

“Of course!” I blurted out. “Heart-medicine. The standard treatment for an irregular heartbeat is digitalis, the drug found in belladonna!”

“Indeed”, Cas said. “You, Lord Horsington, made sure that the digitalis from your not broken bottle was dispersed around your so-called cousin's meal, so he would receive a fatal dose. There was nothing in the wine, and you ate little of the potatoes, which had a very small dosage. Unfortunately for you, you were also greedy. You went to the Navigation Inn for a meal barely an hour before you ate, then claimed you were still distracted by your letter, so did not feel hungry.”

Lord Horsington dragged himself to his feet and stared down the table at Cas.

“I may have been caught”, he said, “but I shall die before justice can be done. And these lands will be restored to the Holy Mother Church despite your machinations, Mr. Novak!”

“I think not.”

“What do you mean?” Prior Richard demanded, also rising to his feet. 

Cas reached down for the small folder that was lying on the table in front of him, and extracted an official-looking document. He read from it.

“Certified Copy of an Entry of Marriage”, he quoted. “Jacob Ian Horsington Esquire, to Miss Mabel Ann Lucas.”

The sergeant coughed heavily. Cas turned to him.

“When I saw you up against that portrait, I spotted the likeness” he said. “Lord Horsington's cousin contracted a secret marriage in eighteen hundred and sixty-two, and you were the result. She even had the idea of giving you a name to distantly claim your paternity, 'chevalier' being the French for 'horseman'. Mr. Hill was killed for no reason at all, because he could not have inherited.”

“You bastard!” Prior Richard exclaimed. “You lie!”

“You may see the documents”, Cas said airily. “All copies, so do not trouble yourself to destroy them.”

The sergeant pulled himself up to his full, impressive height.

“Prior, my lord” he said stonily. ”I am going to have to ask you both to accompany me to the police station.”

+~+~+

Lord Horsington was proven right about his evading justice, as he died of a heart-attack just two days after the dramatic revelations at the Abbey Grange. Prior Richard had twenty years in an English jail to rue his part in a murder, even if it had been that of a hardened criminal; I suspect it was only that latter fact that spared him from the long drop. Sergeant Wilberforce Chevalier became the new Lord Horsington, and with two young boys of his own, the line was again secured. And Cas and I both laughed when, one month later, we received a photograph through the general post showing the new lord of the manor and his family, the sergeant still in the uniform of the post he had declined to surrender.

+~+~+

Our next adventure takes us to the furthest reaches of Essex, I meet my most ardent supporter, and it really is a case of hail to the chief......


	8. Case 88: Bugs (1897)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished; mentioned elsewhere as 'the case of ex-president Murillo'.

I

Mention the word 'bugs' to most people, and they will think instinctively of insects. But to me, the word brings back memories of a bizarrely strange case in the wilds of eastern Essex, not far from Futility Island where we had solved the case of the (re)tired captain some nine years prior. Once again, Cas showed the difference between justice and the law, allowing the 'killer' to go free. And as for the means of death.... well, it was certainly unusual!

That summer, of course, marked the Diamond Jubilee of Her Majesty's accession to the throne. Although the many events were of course on an even more lavish scale than those of the Golden Jubilee ten years before, there was also an increased sense of foreboding, not just because of the ambitions of Imperial Germany and the ongoing tensions right across the Continent, but because we all knew that the dear old queen did not have many years left, and as for her son and heir.... hmph!

There were three days of events in the capital, after which Her Majesty would adjourn to Portsmouth to review the Fleet. I went to bed on the third day, June the twenty-fourth, feeling exhausted, especially as I had spent that day as a volunteer doctor on call for all the cases of sunstroke and over-exposure that were bound to happen when half a country descended on a single city for such an occasion. Cas, bless the man, just held me close that night, and I subsided gratefully into his embrace.

I was still tired the following morning, though the almost lazy orgasm Cas had wrung out of my half-asleep form had helped waken me up just a little. Our late breakfast was almost lunch, although of course Cas had no problem with bacon for either. I smiled across the table at the scruffy little urchin, only to see him frowning at the Times. 

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“There has been a violent hailstorm in Essex”, he said, still reading the article. “Widespread damage, over an area of one hundred square miles. And someone has been killed.”

“Death by hailstorm”, I mused. “Surely the ultimate Act of God?”

“In this case”, he said, “it may not have been.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. I rubbed my leg lazily against his under the table, and he gave me a warning growl which, of course, made me instantly hard. 

Well, almost instantly. Still, not bad for a forty-five-year-old.

“The dead man was one Salvatore Murillo, former president of the Republic of San Quentin”, he said. “He came to England earlier this year when there was yet another takeover of his country, this time with him on the receiving end. He ruled for barely six months, but in that time killed over a thousand people, probably more, before fleeing with a large part of the country's treasury.”

He who lives by the sword, I thought wryly, continuing to rub my leg against Cas'. He quirked an eyebrow at me.

“I think that there is more to this story than meets the eye”, he said. “That, and the fact that my brother Luke has said he wishes to call round this afternoon.”

He growled again as my leg reached further across, and moved suddenly and swiftly round the table. Before I could gather my wits, he had one hand inside my dressing-gown and.... oh my God!

“Such a good boy!” he praised. “Luke will be here in just over an hour. I think that gives us plenty of time, don't you?”

“Yes!” I nearly qualified as a choirboy at Westminster Abbey with that pitch. And then he was teasing my balls, and I came with a moan, tears in my eyes. 

“One”, he muttered. 

“One?” I questioned, puzzled.

He gently stood me up, and guided me into his room, before laying me gently out on the bed. I lay there still shattered by my recent orgasm, but as he swiftly undressed, I found myself rising to attention again with an impressive turn of speed.

“Two?” he muttered, moving closer.

Hot damn!

+~+~+

“Would you like another cushion, doctor?”

I scowled at Mr. Lucifer Novak, who looked smugly at the two of us. I think even the worst policeman in the Metropolis would not have had any trouble working out what had just happened in these rooms in the past hour, judging from my tattered state. Cas, of course, looked totally unaffected, which was just not fair!

The damnable thing was that I would quite have liked another cushion. Cas had reached four in his 'counting', and had had to wake me up when his brother had arrived not long after.

“Stop teasing Dean, Luke”, Cas said equably. “How is Alfie?”

“Not due for another three months, thankfully”, Lucifer Novak sighed, dropping his tall frame into the fireside chair. “The cravings are back again, eating whole lemons, this time. Ugh!"

His and his new mate's first-born, Charles Novak the Second born at the end of 'Ninety-five, had turned out to be an alpha, and I had privately rejoiced when their second-born Philip (to whom they had very kindly asked me to be godfather) also turned out to be an alpha. Lucifer's elder brother Michael must have hated him even more for securing the Novak alpha-line like that. 

“I doubt that you are here to discuss Alfie's fruit preferences”, Cas said with a smile. “What does Balthazar want?”

“He is worried over this death by hailstorm in Essex”, Lucifer Novak said, accepting a barley-sugar offered him by his brother. “This mess all began back in 'Sixty, when the British government – unwisely, in my opinion – yielded to pressure from the Americans and effectively leased the Mosquito Coast, one of our few Central American possessions, to the state of Nicaragua. Naturally they messed it up; three years ago they outright annexed it, and we lost considerable face when our deal with the Americans meant we could do nothing about it.”

“San Quentin is a tiny place, barely bigger than the Isle of Wight, but it's the position it sits in that makes it important, right where Nicaragua meets Honduras. They also own one small island out in the Gulf of Mexico, so their reach extends a long way for such a small country. The French have been building a canal across the isthmus further down in Colombia, but they've run into all sorts of difficulties. The Americans want to take it over, because it will enable ships to go between their two coasts without sailing all the way round South America. They are even talking of a second canal across Nicaragua, but either way, the position of San Quentin – and the latest administration there is pro-British, which has annoyed Washington no end, as they helped them get rid of the old one – is vital.”

“Are you saying ex-president Murillo was murdered?” I ventured. “By whom?”

“The list of suspects would probably fill a book by itself”, Lucifer Novak said acidly. “He still has some supporters back in San Quentin, so dispatching him removes a source of annoyance for the new regime. The Americans might think that doing it would earn them kudos in the eyes of that regime, and swing them away from us. And both the Nicaraguans and Hondurans hated Murillo as well, and would similarly think to ingratiate themselves with the new regime by removing him.”

“Mr. Popular!” I snarked. "Take a number and get in line!"

“It is still murder by a foreign power on British soil”, Cas said thoughtfully. “That could have some unpleasant repercussions.”

“Indeed”, his brother said. “President McKinley is also looking likely to intervene in the mess that the Spanish are making of nearby Cuba, so there is that to add to the mix too.”

“Where did the ex-president die? Cas asked.

“A tiny place called Uxley, in Essex”, his brother said.

That was one of those moments that I wished that I was better at concealing my emotions. Both Novaks noticed at once.

“What is it, Dean?” Cas asked.

I hesitated.

“One of the people who writes to me regularly about your published adventures lives there”, I said. “A lady by the name of Mrs. Melody Wing.”

Cas raised an eyebrow at me. 

“Part of your harem?” Lucifer Novak smirked. I decided that I did not like him after all.

“She has supported my efforts for many a year”, I said stiffly. “She is the president of the Bradwell and Uxley Grammatical Society, a local reading and writing club.”

“B.U.G.S!” Lucifer Novak snorted. “Cas, I think you may have a rival for the doctor's affections.”

“Not if he knows what's good for him”, Cas said primly.

How I managed to blush when my body was diverting most of my blood flow to my lower brain, I had no idea. But I did.

II

Cas had recently had a four-poster bed installed in his room, which I had thought a little extravagant. However, that night I found out just why. After tying my wrists to the top corner posts, he let down a thick strap of leather that ran from side to side, with loops at each end, inserting my socked feet through each loop. I was trussed up more effectively that any Christmas goose, and damn if that did not make me hard within seconds. Cas grinned evilly and positioned himself at my entrance.

“Dean?” he said carefully.

“Mwah?”

“Tell me about this Mrs. Melody Wing.”

I stared up at him incredulously.

“That is”, he smirked, “if you wish to come tonight.”

I suddenly felt the click of the cock-ring around my base, and my eyes widened. Then he was pushing our largest dildo slowly inside me, and damn if the bastard wasn't teasing my prostate. My cock strained against the ring, and I whined piteously.

“Tell me”, he whispered. “We have all night.”

I was already crying, and the thought of this agony being prolonged for hours – no, I could not bear it. I forced myself to speak.

“She wrote to me when our first case was published, back in 'Eighty”, I ground out. “Please!”

He teased my prostate still further, and added to my agony by gently tweaking my nipples. I knew that words would only get harder (like everything else), and hurried on.

“She was at school then, her parents having come over from America to live in Essex”, I managed. “She is married to an Englishman, and they have three children. Caaaaaas!”

And with that he changed his angle and went straight for my prostate, I was not even aware of his slipping off the cock-ring, but he must have done, for I came with a guttural roar that shook me to the core, before falling back into my trussed position. He gently removed my feet from the leather loops, allowing me to collapse into an untidy heap of useless humanity.

“You should call in and see her”, he said, gently kissing his way down my chest. “I am sure she would appreciate such a thing.”

I smiled weakly, before I realized just where he was going with that mouth of his. Oh my poor aching body!

+~+~+

I do not think that I was ever more grateful for Cas' wealth and his predilection for first-class travel, for I was still very sore when we set out from Baker Street the following day. The cab ride across the city to Liverpool Street was sheer and utter agony - god damn the person who invented cobbles! - and was not helped by a certain blue-eyed genius' knowing smirk. And he had insisted, despite the fact that we did not know how long we would be away for, that I wear his favourite pair of blue and black panties, which meant I would be greeting one of my readers in the knowledge that.....

Huh, I was so whipped! But at least the silk was comfortable.

The Southend train we boarded at the Great Eastern Railway terminus was nice enough, and I enjoyed being able to lift the arm-rests and lie on my side along the length of the seat, trying to ignore both the ticket-collector's glare and Cas' hungry look that told me I would be in for a rough night again. But I was a manly man, and I could handle it. Probably.

We had to change at Wickford for a small branch-line train to Southminster, the nearest station to Uxley. The journey took us into the Hundred of Dengie, a wild area a little reminiscent of our recent trip to Romney Marsh, but drier and somewhat more cultivated. Alighting at the terminus, we hired a carriage which took us through Asheldham, Dengie itself, Tillingham and Bradwell-on-Sea (which rather curiously wasn't on the sea), before heading towards the North Sea coast. About halfway there was a small gathering of five or six houses astride the 'road' (I am being charitable in so describing it), which comprised the village of Uxley, near which the ex-president had met his doom. And where my greatest 'fan' lived.

Before departing London. Cas had arranged rooms for us at the King's Head in Bradwell, and I had wired ahead to Mrs. Wing to let her know that we would be in the area. I had not of course received or expected a reply from such a remote area, so I hoped our unexpected arrival would be welcome. 

It was. Mrs. Wing was delighted to see us both, and her husband Jonathan was equally welcoming. Their children were away spending a week at their grandparents' house in Maldon, which I suppose was a blessing. And of course, my supporter (who enthused over the latest book that both Cas and I had signed for her) was very willing to tell us what she knew of the death of the ex-president.

“The newspapers are calling it an Act of God!” she snorted disdainfully, her American accent still notable despite over two decades in England. “Bunkum! Unless God has taken to locking his own door!”

“Perhaps you might tell us the whole sequence of events”, Cas said, his eyes lighting up at the chocolate cake Mrs. Wing had brought out. There was even a fresh pot of coffee. She knew him well.

(There was a hint of a suppressed simper on her face when she looked at him, but I chose to overlook that. Plus, the look on her face when she looked at me suggested that somehow – and God alone knows how – she knew quite well what I was wearing beneath my trousers).

“We had a meeting of the Society on that day, the twenty-fourth”, she reminisced. “We are normally six in number, but three are away on holiday, so it was just me, the Reverend Carter and Rod.”

“The ex-president?” I asked, confused.

“No, his manservant”, she explained. “Totally unpronounceable last name, so we just call him Rodrigo, or Rod. Huge hulk of a man, which is a bit odd as he's an omega and dating a village lad, Connor James. We finished at about eight, and the vicar left to walk back to the vicarage, in the village of course. Rod had told us that he and his master had walked down the village earlier, and his master would be calling for him on his way back. The two left for their place, which is close to the old chapel, at about ten past eight. It was still light at the time.”

I nodded. The 'old chapel' was indeed that, one of the oldest Christian churches in England, founded by St. Chad back in the seventh century amidst the ruins of an old Roman fortress, as he strove to turn the East Saxons from their pagan ways. Successfully, after a long struggle.

“Rod told me later that his master had wanted to go to the chapel to pray for a while”, Mrs. Wing continued. “He tried to dissuade him – it had been a devilishly hot day, and the clouds threatened some heavy rain – but he would not have it. Just after they parted company at the crossroads, the storm struck. Rod ran to the house, but his master must have decided to make for the chapel. He'd have been safe in there. But for some reason the building was locked, and he was trapped outside.

I knew what that meant. The Hundred was, like Romney Marsh, predominantly flat and with little cover except for its buildings. Anyone caught outside in the hailstorm that had hit this area – our driver had pointed out what it had done to an already abandoned barn – might as well have stood in front of a firing-squad. 

“Who had the key to the chapel?” Cas asked.

“The vicar has one, and the lighthouse-keeper the other”, she said. On seeing our confused faces she went on, “the lighthouse stands not far from the chapel, and the keeper keeps a general eye on the place. Alaric Peters, his name is, but I do not see why he would have locked it. It is a holy place, after all.”

“What about the distances?” Cas asked thoughtfully. “How far is it from the crossroads to all three buildings?”

The lady thought for a moment. 

“Mr. Murillo's house is about one hundred yards due north”, she said. “The lighthouse probably three to four hundred yards east. And the chapel about two hundred yards south.”

“Was Mr. Rodrigo treated for any injuries arising from his exposure to the hailstorm?” Cas asked.

“Yes”, she said. “Doctor Fuller said that he had some quite bad ones.”

“Indeed”, Cas said.

We both looked at him expectantly.

“Indeed what?” I asked, somewhat testily.

“Well, it seems quite obvious”, he said. 

III

“Was it murder?” Mrs. Wing asked, clearly as confused as I was.

“Not in the strict legal definition of that word”, Cas said cagily. “Murder requires malice aforethought. Whilst I do not doubt that the killer may have eventually resorted to murder, he instead took an opportunity presented to him by an Act of God, and turned it to his own ends. I think we should pay a call on the vicar, just to clarify my theory, and then all will be done.”

We both stared at him.

+~+~+

The Reverend Peter Carter looked at us both dubiously. I could understand it in Cas' case; we had walked the mile or so back from Uxley, and his hair was even more of a wreck than usual. I blushed when thinking of my choice (well, Cas' choice) of my underwear for meeting with a cleric. I had to be breaking some holy law or other.

“I do hope that the great detective does not suspect a man of the cloth”, the vicar said warily.

“I have had clerical killers before”, Cas said lightly. “Indeed, one of my first cases, back in 'Seventy-Seven, involved a priest who killed someone, and ironically an Act of God was involved there too. No, vicar, I just wish for an answer or two. When you and Mr. Rodrigo visited Mrs. Wing's house, were you both on time?”

The vicar looked at him suspiciously, but answered.

“Rod was a little late”, he said. “I think his master wanted to go into the village for some reason, and took him along. I remember him – Rod – saying that he feared he might miss the Society meeting, but that his master had said that he would collect him on the way back when the meeting was over. I left before them both.”

“Mr. Rodrigo sounds amazingly well-read for a recent arrival to our shores”, Cas said smiling.

“He may look like a hired thug, but he is in fact a gentle man”, the vicar said defensively. “He has a particular preference for Shakespeare, but we disagree over Dickens, whom he is not overly fond of.”

(I could sympathize with that. I found the great man heavy going at times, although A Christmas Carol was one of my favourite tales).

“I would also welcome your opinion of the late Mr. Murillo”, Cas said.

The vicar's face darkened.

“As a man of the cloth, I am always inclined to be charitable with my fellow humans”, he said loftily. “But that man did not have a single redeeming facet to his character. Of course I have read of the depredations he inflicted on his distant countrymen during his short and frankly disgraceful rule, and he often treated poor Rod badly, especially after the man took up with young James. If God himself had not removed him, I am sure one of his former countrymen would have hunted him down and finished him off!”

I could suddenly see this vicar locking the chapel door and smiling as the hail beat a man to death outside. And he did have the key to the place. I shuddered.

+~+~+

I had thought when we walked back east out of the village that we were either returning to Mrs. Wing's house or going to see the mysterious Rodrigo, but Cas continued on past Uxley and called briefly in at the lighthouse, before returning to the crossroads and walking down to the tiny chapel. It was a lovely simple building, and it seemed incredible that it had stood here, symbolizing an outpost of Christianity, for over twelve centuries. Of the Roman fort, from amidst whose ruins it was raised, there was no sign.

The building was not empty. A slender young fair-headed man, most likely an alpha, was kneeling down praying, whilst a much taller and broader hawk-faced dark-haired man stood silently beside him. Cas did not advance to disturb them, and waited for them to finish before stepping outside to wait for them both. Presumably the mysterious Rodrigo and his alpha boyfriend Mr. Connor James.

The two men came out of the chapel, and I thought instinctively that they were an odd match, the huge muscular swarthy foreigner and the thin Englishman, omega and alpha rather than the other way round. Then again, perhaps Cas and I were an odd match ourselves.....

My friend broke into my thoughts.

“Gentlemen”, he said softly, “I am here about the murder you both committed of late.”

Rodrigo took an angry step towards him, only for his alpha to place a restraining hand on his huge shoulder. I would have doubted that anything could stop this man-mountain, but he froze at once and looked uncertainly at his partner.

“It's all right, Roddy”, the thin man said. “Let them speak.”

IV

“It was ironic, was it not?” Cas said quietly. “When one looks at all the hundreds if not thousands of people that Mr. Murillo killed, many personally, and all the crimes that he committed as president. Yet what finally did for him was a combination of some unwise words and an Act of God.”

“Go on”, Mr. James said.

“You, Rodrigo, lied about the circumstances of your return home”, Cas said. “Your master collected you from Mrs. Wing's house, that we know from the evidence of others, but your journey home was not uneventful. Possibly words were exchanged in which Mr. Murillo accused you either of treachery, or of seeing an English alpha when your master wanted to return to San Quentin some day. Certain it is that tempers were high by the time you reached that crossroads yonder.”

“He did both!” Rodrigo growled. I silently wished that I had brought my gun, and not left it in my bag back at the King's Head.

“And it was singularly unfortunate that that Mr. James here had come to the house to see you, Rodrigo, and of course missed you as he had forgotten that it was your book club night”, Cas went on. “When you met them both at the crossroads, Mr. Murillo said something that his manservant could not forgive. I do not doubt that the time was fast approaching when Rodrigo would have been forced to do something, even if it were as relatively passive as informing his master's many enemies as to his location. But as it turned out, he did not need to.”

“You did not, as you later told Mrs. Wing, leave your master at the crossroads. When he said those disrespectful things about the man you loved, you hit him and rendered him unconscious. I do not doubt that you considered taking him into the house to recover, but just moments later, the great hailstorm broke.”

“It very quickly became clear that this was no normal storm, and that anyone out in it ran the risk of severe injury if not death. The two of you decided that, as God had forced your hand, you would use the opportunity for your own ends. You, Rodrigo, ordered your mate to take cover in the house, whilst you easily hoisted the body of your master and carried it to lie against the door of the chapel. You took shelter inside until the storm had abated, whilst the hail beat your master to death.”

The two men stared at him in silence.

“I was puzzled by two things arising from Mrs. Wing's most excellent description of this area”, Cas said. “Firstly, if matters had happened as you had claimed, Rodrigo, then you would have had to have run a distance of less than a hundred yards to shelter, yet you subsequently needed treatment for your injuries. And if he truly had faced a locked door at the chapel, Mr. Murillo could surely have run the three hundred yards or so to his house, even if he had sustained injuries whilst so doing. Unless, of course, he was in no fit state to move.”

“The rest is easy. Mr. James here waits until darkness to return to the village, and you, Rodrigo, use the same darkness to retrieve the key kept by the lighthouse owner – it hangs on a nail in an unlocked porch – and lock the door to the chapel before returning it. The superstitious will of course say that God saw such an unholy man approaching his house, and took measures to keep him out.”

“He was evil!” Mr. James almost spat out. “The world is a better place without him. And we did not kill him.”

“Not directly”, Cas admitted. “This is difficult, and regretfully the doctor here will not be able to publish this case for many a year as a result of that. I am not superstitious, but I am inclined to view that hailstorm as the means of death of, as you say Mr. James, an evil man. But”, and he wagged an admonitory finger at them both, “be sure that neither of you ever comes to my attention again!”

“We shall not!” Rodrigo said fervently, wrapping a huge arm around his alpha.

+~+~+

Despite the late hour, we called in on Mr. and Mrs. Wing on our way back, and Cas explained the case to them, enjoining them to keep it secret. We then made our way back to the peace and quiet of the King's Head, and enjoyed a restful night before our return the following day.

At least it would have been restful if Cas had not insisted on making full play of me taking off the panties. And the bastard had brought me another pair to wear home, too! We took a later train home the following day, and he teased me the whole way back to Baker Street, where I made my displeasure manifestly clear.

Very manifestly. Three times!

It would be a full two years later, but a card would arrive at Baker Street informing us of the births of Roderick and Connie James, son and daughter to Mr. and Monseigneur Connor James of the Hundred of Dengie, in the county of Essex.

+~+~+

Next time, Mr. Marcus Crowley crashes back into our lives. Quite literally....


	9. Case 89: Devil's Trap (1897)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the Devil's Foot'.

I

Many of our cases began with someone entering 221B Baker Street, seating themselves in the famous fireside chair, and telling us of a case they needed our (Cas’) help in. This one, in contrast, began when the devil himself came charging through the door, then promptly slipped and fell flat on his face!  
   
+~+~+  
   
It was a cold, misty evening in September, and I was grateful for the blazing fire burning merrily before us. I was reading through my notes on our recent cases, and thinking privately that my writing was indeed degenerating to Standard Received Doctor Scrawl (there had already been instances of misrepresentation concerning two unwritten stories that had caused confusion and annoyance amongst my readers). It would be a bad day if I messed up the re-telling of a case just because I could not rely on my own notes! 

Cas was sat reading some ancient treatise on Greek literature, looking even more owlish than usual in his reading-glasses. It was wonderfully domestic, except that I kept thinking about sex with Cas whilst he kept his glasses on. Look, I was an alpha and I had needs!

I just knew the slow smile that the blue-eyed bastard was putting out meant that he knew full well the effect his new eye-wear was having on me. He would pay for that later!  
   
Our quiet evening was interrupted by a sudden pounding on the front door, which along with the frantic ringing of the bell suggested more than a degree of urgency. Cas raised an eyebrow at me, and we listened as the door was opened by the maid. Seconds later, there was the sound of feet pounding heavily on the stairs, and before we could rise to our feet, our own door burst open – and there was a man dressed as the devil, complete with a long pitchfork on which he was leaning, trying to catch his breath!  
   
That was only the first shock. The second one was that we instantly recognized him, even though it had been nearly a decade since the one time we had met him, in the case of The Hound of the Baskervilles. It was Mr. Marcus Crowley!  
   
+~+~+  
   
Mr. Crowley’s entrance would have been dramatic enough as it was, but having briefly recovered his breath he tried to execute a sharp turn on the rug leading to the door, and naturally slipped flat on his face with an exclamation of pained anguish. Cas and I looked at each other in shock, then acting as one we crossed the room and hoisted him back to his feet again. He looked at us in gratitude, but his expression was one of barely-concealed terror.  
   
“Mr. Novak, help me!” he ground out.  
   
The words were barely out of his mouth when we had our second interruption of the evening. Three large policemen surged through the open door behind Mr. Crowley, and advanced on him. I groaned inwardly when I recognized the one in front as Sergeant Winter, a dour-faced newcomer to the area. Indeed, his station did not even cover Baker Street, much to my immense relief. What was the annoying, overweight, pompous, self-righteous, racist oaf of an alpha doing here?  
   
(I may just possibly not have had the highest opinion of the man, as more than one constable had passed on to me disparaging remarks that the idiot had made about both Cas and Inspector Henriksen. Just possibly. However, that opinion was, I felt, fully justified).  
   
“Mr. Marcus Crowley!” the sergeant panted, his face red with the effort of the stairs. “I arrest you in the name of the law!”  
   
He advanced on the oddly-dressed acquaintance of ours, only for Cas to smoothly interpose himself in the way.  
   
“In case you have forgotten, sergeant”, he said pointedly, “you are on my private property.”  
   
“And following a suspected felon!” the sergeant snapped. “Take him, lads!”  
   
He moved as if he was about to push Cas aside, which led me to growl defensively and advance on him. He belatedly seemed to notice me, and looked surprised.  
   
“Sergeant”, Cas said smoothly, “you and your men will wait in the downstairs lobby. Not outside this door, kindly note; the lobby. Mr. Crowley is engaging me to investigate his case” – he looked at our still panting visitor, who looked frankly terrified – “after which one of us will escort him down to you.”  
   
“But….” the sergeant began.  
   
“Or do I have to write to my good friend Colonel Bradford about his men not respecting the fact that an Englishman’s home is his castle?” Cas said coldly. “And that he perhaps needs to review whether some of his sergeants deserve their positions if they cannot respect a tenet of English law that has existed for nearly three centuries?”  
   
I smiled at that threat. Colonel Sir Edward Ridley Colborne Bradford, Baronet, was then the Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, and he had written to Cas on more than one occasion to thank him for his assistance in various cases. He was thus the person with the power to promote – or sack – our unwelcome visitor. Sergeant Winter grunted.  
   
“One of my men will be on the stairs”, he snarled. “Boys!”  
   
The two constables followed him out, though I caught at least one of them shooting me a covert smile when his superior’s back was turned. I managed to turn the resultant laugh into a cough. More or less.

Cas and I helped Mr. Crowley to the fireside chair, and took our normal positions. Our guest’s face had faded from a red virulent enough to match his costume, and I could see Cas was having to make an effort to avoid smiling.  
   
“Mr. Crowley”, he said. “Good evening. How may we be of service?”  
   
The man looked shocked at the sudden chain of developments, and drew a deep breath.  
   
“The sergeant wants to charge me with theft of the Devil's Foot”, he said heavily. “And that’s not the worst. Unless they find who did it, I’m a dead man walking!”  
   
+~+~+  
   
“After my, ahem, run-in with the Baskervilles”, our guest began, “I moved to London. Golders Green to be exact. A most charming area, and plenty of room for Growley to exercise in. Though sad to say, he passed on to that great kennel in the sky last year.”  
   
It seemed vaguely unreal that we had one of the most dangerous criminals in the capital taking drinks with us, whilst the Metropolitan Police were champing at the bit to arrest him just yards outside our door. Such were the lives we led, I supposed. And I would not have changed them for the world.  
   
“Why does Sergeant Winter suspect you of the theft?” Cas asked.  
   
Mr. Crowley shuddered.  
   
“This evening, I went as a guest to Mr. Hockaday’s house in Mill Hill”, he said, looking meaningfully at Cas. My friend nodded.  
   
“Am I to take it that Mr. Vine and Miss Wollaston were there too?” Cas asked politely.  
   
Our guest nodded.  
   
“Those three, along with our guest this evening, are the leading exponents of their trade in our fair city”, Cas said bluntly. “And if something has happened to endanger the position of any one of them, it would be greatly to the advantage of the other three.”

II  
   
“Indeed”, our guest said. “I should add, because I know both of you are probably wondering, that we were but four guests among over thirty, and it was a costume party.”  
   
“Even I might have worked that one out!” I snorted. It was completely unfair that they both looked at me in that way.

“Mr. Hockaday was displaying a recent acquisition of his, a turquoise bracelet from the time of the Pharaohs”, Mr. Crowley continued. “A pure gold piece known as the Devil's Foot, because of both the shape and the repeated attempts that have been made to steal it. It has been verified as of its time by several noted antiquarians, and is supposed to be a fertility charm. He invited the three of us to look at it….”  
   
“You mean to boast about it”, Cas cut in. Our guest smiled, but nodded.  
   
“Too true”, he said. “We examined the bracelet - it was a fine piece of work, I thought - before we adjourned to the next room to discuss certain, ahem, business matters.”  
   
“Which are only my concern in that I need to know only how long you were in there, and if anyone left during that time”, Cas said smoothly.  
   
“Thank you”, our guest said, visibly relieved. “No-one left the room during the meeting, which lasted for about half an hour. Mr. Hockaday had guards at the connecting door back to the room where the bracelet was, as well as a second at the door from that room into the corridor, and even one at the balcony window.”  
   
“Yet it was stolen, I presume?” Cas said. “The precautions were not enough.”  
   
Mr. Crowley groaned.  
   
“It was the oldest trick in the book!” he said sadly. “I felt such a fool afterwards. There was the sound of a small explosion, possibly a shot, from the front of the house, and Mr. Hockaday went to investigate, insisting that we wait for him. Miss Wollaston suggested that we could utilize the time by looking at the bracelet again, so we went back into the other room. There was only one guard left, the one by the window. He stayed in the room the whole time we were there.”  
   
“How long was Mr. Hockaday gone for?” Cas asked.  
   
“I think about five to ten minutes”, Mr. Crowley said. “He was very annoyed when he came back. Some boy letting off a firework in the neighbourhood, and it had been reported as a gunshot.”  
   
“Were you still in the bracelet room when he returned?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“Where did you go from there, and who went first?” Cas asked.  
   
Our guest had to think about that one.  
   
“Mr. Vine went first, back into the other room”, he said. “Then myself, then Mr. Hockaday and finally Miss Wollaston. I would think that there was but ten seconds between all of us. We talked for not more than ten minutes I think, then returned downstairs, not through the room with the bracelet.”  
   
Cas pressed his fingers together.  
   
“This bracelet”, he said. “Is it particularly famous?”  
   
“Definitely”, Mr. Crowley said. “The last owner before Mr. Hockaday, Lord Bracklesham, loaned it to the British Museum for a time, and I saw it there. I would have liked it for myself, but I could never have afforded it.”  
   
“Did you take it?”  
   
“Sir?” Mr. Crowley looked shocked.  
   
“Come, now”, Cas said. “You know from our previous encounter that my interests lie in the pursuit of justice, not necessarily the strict letter of the law, which can be a blunt instrument at times. And talking of blunt instruments, we must consider poor Sergeant Winter, who is either wearing a hole in Mrs. Singer’s hall carpet or has been thrown out onto the roadway for being an annoyance. More likely the latter, I suspect. How did these people come to think that you had stolen the bracelet?”  
   
“It must have been half an hour or so later that the hue and cry went up that it had been stolen”, our guest recalled. “Mr. Hockaday insisted that it must have been one of us, and pulled us all into a side-room. It was pitch-black, and he put on some odd sort of weird blue light. Then he told us that he had protected the bracelet casing with a paint that could only be detected under this light, and my hands were glowing blue. I managed to knock over the light and get away.”  
   
“Could anyone had transferred that paint onto your costume without your being aware of it?” Cas asked.  
   
“I smelled it in the cab coming here”, our visitor said, “so there was no way I could not have noticed it if it had been there at the start of the evening. I shook hands only with the three…. people I have mentioned, and any of them could have done it then.”

“Miss Wollaston shook hands?” I asked, surprised.

“Yes”, our guest said. “She is, ahem, quite modern.”  
   
“We have kept the sergeant waiting long enough”, Cas said. “I am sure you have access to a high-quality lawyer, so if you recall anything else of import, please send it to me through them. Doctor, would you please escort Mr. Crowley downstairs?”  
   
“You will help me?” our guest asked.  
   
“Of course”, Cas said. “The rate will be the same as last time, should I succeed. One unspecified future favour, to be honoured at a time and place of my choosing.”  
   
Mr. Crowley nodded, and I led him out of the room. Cas had been right; Sergeant Winter had successfully annoyed Mrs. Singer enough for her to make him (but not his constables) wait outside in the rain. I hoped that I did not smile too much. Though judging by the annoyed look on the sergeant's face, I may well have done.

The snigger probably did not help matters, either.  
   
III  
   
“This is serious, Dean”, Cas said once I had returned to the room. “Deadly serious. We must solve this case as soon as possible, otherwise the three suspects will be doing their level best to undermine Mr. Crowley’s network.”  
   
“Would that be a bad thing?” I wondered.  
   
Cas smiled.  
   
“It seems an unfortunate analogy given his costume tonight, but I think this is a case of ‘better the devil you know’”, he said. “Let us take the hypothesis that Mr. Crowley was set up. In that case one of the three people there must have done it.”  
   
He thought for some time, then smiled.  
   
“I have an idea”, he said. “But we are going to have to persuade some hardened criminals to co-operate with our investigation. That will not be easy!”  
   
+~+~+  
   
The following morning, we took a cab to The Saints, the Mill Hill home of Mr. Eustasias Hockaday. I cannot say that the criminal lifestyle did him any favours in his appearance, that of a bloated, blond hulk of a man who had a clear tendency towards gluttony. Little wonder that he needed a fertility charm and it would have needed to be a powerful one at that. He scowled at us from across the study table.  
   
“Didn’t know this was your sort of thing, Mr. Novak”, he said tartly.  
   
“I have had dealings with Mr. Marcus Crowley before”, Cas said politely, “and bearing in mind what is at stake here, I would crave your indulgence.”  
   
“Why?”  
   
“Quite probably for your own survival, sir.”  
   
The man’s eyes bulged. 

“What?”  
   
“Consider sir, if you will, the possibility that Mr. Crowley may be telling the truth when he claimed not to have taken your bracelet”, Cas said gently. “Now, let us follow that on, and assume that either Miss Wollaston or Mr. Vine is guilty. Consider how much they have to gain.”  
   
“I don’t follow.”  
   
“Let us talk plainly”, Cas said. “You are all criminals.” He held up his hand when the man looked set to protest. “I know people talk about the concept of 'honour among thieves', but I am here to represent Mr. Crowley, who is a criminal. I do not disillusion myself as to that fact, no more than his expensive lawyer is now being paid handsomely to do. I merely wish to see justice done, and I firmly believe it is in your interests to see that, too. Remember, both Miss Wollaston and Mr. Vine had the chance to take the Devil's Foot as well.”  
   
“Neither Sarah nor Timothy would behave in such a manner!” the man spluttered.  
   
Cas leaned forward.  
   
“You are prepared to bet your life on that?” he asked pointedly. 

The criminal shuddered.  
   
“What do you want?” he demanded.  
   
“To interview the three security guards you had stationed around the bracelet”, Cas said.  
   
“They are my most loyal men”, Mr. Hockaday said testily. “They would not betray me.”  
   
“Yet your bracelet is gone”, Cas pointed out.

The big man reddened at that.  
   
“Ah”, he said.  
   
We both looked hard at him.  
   
“'Ah?'” Cas said.  
   
“I may have, sort of found it this morning”, he admitted, red-faced. “I was examining the stand on which the case had been mounted, and felt something sticking out from under the covers on the table. It turned out to be the bracelet.”  
   
Cas eyed him coolly. The man visibly wilted.  
   
“You did, I presume, immediately communicate this information to the local police station?” he asked.  
   
“I was just going to”, he said. 

I refrained from laughing. But it was close. The man quailed under Cas' sharp look.  
   
“May we see it, please?” Cas said. “And there is of course the small matter as to how it got under there.”  
   
“Of course”, the man said gruffly, seemingly glad to change the subject slightly. “Come this way.”  
   
IV  
   
The Ancient Egyptians had produced a beautiful piece, I thought. The bracelet shone as if it has been fresh out of the goldsmith's workshop, and the turquoise, which I knew was a difficult stone to work with as it was relatively soft, shone almost as blue as my friend's eyes. Cas spent some time examining it, being careful to only touch it with his handkerchief, and even looked at the stone through his lens. Then he nodded, as if reaching a conclusion.  
   
“Mr. Crowley said that two of the guards left the room at the firework explosion, and one stayed behind”, he said. “I think I only need to speak with that man, please.”  
   
“Very well”, Mr. Hockaday said crossly. “I trust you have no objection in my being there when you question him?”  
   
“I would welcome it”, Cas smiled, to his evident surprise.  
   
+~+~+  
   
“Joe Biggerson, sir”, the hulking man before us said.  
   
“Sit down, please, Mr. Biggerson”, Cas said pleasantly. “I am afraid this interview will be unpleasant for you, so let us endeavour to make it short.”  
   
The huge man glanced nervously at his boss, who merely nodded.  
   
“I have one main question for you”, Cas said. “Who was the lady?”  
   
“Sir?”  
   
“The lady who made you abandon your post, Mr. Biggerson. Kindly describe her to us.”  
   
The man looked horrified, but blundered into speech.  
   
“It was after everyone had gone down, sir”, he said, his face even redder than Mr. Hockaday's had been. “This lady came out of an upstairs room and said she had heard there was a fabulous bracelet here, and would I allow her to see it? I thought there no harm, provided I stayed with her. But she felt a bit woozy after she put it back, so I took her along and halfway down the stairs, where Ben was on guard. Then I went and stood outside the door again, just as Phil and Joss came back from that explosion. The thing was there then; we all saw it!”  
   
Cas shook his head.  
   
“Who is this lady?” Mr. Hockaday demanded.  
   
“Clearly someone working for either Miss Wollaston or Mr. Vine”, Cas said. “Mr. Biggerson, did you see anyone else around this time?”

“Only the gentleman dressed as the devil sir”, he said. “He came along the corridor as I was taking the lady down. But I'd locked the door, I swear!”

“A locked door wouldn't keep old Crowley out!” Mr. Hockaday snapped. “I knew it!”

“Hmm”, Cas said. “I forgot to ask Mr. Crowley; what costumes were the rest of you wearing?”

“Costumes?” Mr. Hockaday asked, clearly puzzled.

“Mr. Crowley was wearing a devil's costume when he arrived at Baker Street”, Cas said patiently. “What did the rest of you wear? It may be apposite to the investigation.”

“Oh. I was Mr. Pickwick, from Dickens. Mr. Vine came as Robert the Bruce; kilt and all. And Miss Wollaston was Mary Queen of Scots.”

“That is interesting”, Cas said with a smile. “They have of course contacted you this morning and suggested an immediate move against Mr. Crowley's organization whilst he is under arrest.”

Mr. Hockaday held his gaze for some moments, but no-one could out-stare Cas when he set his mind to it. The man nodded.

“How did you know that?” he asked warily.

“I have a suggestion for you”, Cas said. “You do not, of course, have to act on it, but failure to do so will almost certainly result in your death, so it is quite advisable, really. Tell Miss Wollaston and Mr. Vine that a business matter has called you away today – be sure to go somewhere as well, as they will be watching – and that whilst you wish to move against Mr. Crowley with them, you need twenty-four hours. Arrange your return here for tomorrow morning. I will return then, and tell you how it was done.”

Mr. Hockaday looked uncertainly at him, but nodded his agreement, and we left.

+~+~+

Cas was unusually quiet on the journey back to Baker Street, and I wondered why.

“All that stuff and nonsense about the bracelet being a fertility charm!” I scoffed as we entered our rooms. “It certainly didn't seem to have made Mr. Hockaday any the more attractive.

I jumped as Cas slammed the door behind me, and turned to look at him. His eyes had glazed over, and he looked positively feral. I gulped.

“My room!” he snarled. “Now!”

I sprinted for his door, and mercifully he was still undressing so I made it to his bedside. However, I had barely got off my shoes before a naked alpha was on me, all but ripping my trousers off of me before throwing me onto the bed. I tried to shed my shirt, but Cas looked almost manic as he just pushed it up and worked me open far quicker than usual, before burying himself inside me with a pleasured groan. And before I could adjust, he was going straight for my prostate, jerking me off with one hand whilst supporting himself with the other. I had time for one brief whine before I came all over my shirt, my head falling back onto the pillow. 

Except that instead of following me over the edge as was usual, Cas continued to attack my prostate. Either he was exercising monumental self-control, or he had applied a cock-ring to himself, and I suspected the latter. Incredibly I was growing hard again, which for an alpha of forty-five years of age was not bad going. 

Cas seemed to be working me around even more than usual, and I was close to a second orgasm when I felt my entrance being stretched even further. Damn it, Cas was pushing the vibrator in alongside his python of a cock, and that was it, I erupted for a second time, this time splattering his chest. Yet he didn't seem to slow down even then, and I whined piteously as my prostate was tortured like never before. Fertility charm? God, if I had been an omega, Cas was making damn sure I would have been pregnant, and then some!

There was no way I could manage a third time – or so I thought, until Cas must have removed the cock-ring and was coming forcefully inside of me, growling fiercely as he filled me up. My eruption was weak compared to the first two, and my cock was almost painfully sore, but he kept going inside of me, and at some point I must have passed out, because the next thing I remembered was waking up and wondering if my legs were going to be even more bowed than before.

+~+~+

Somehow I managed to get up the next morning, though only to collapse on the couch. Cas brought me my breakfast over and fondly ran his fingers through my hair; of course the bastard seemed unaffected by my ordeal. I made a mental note to leave the bathroom door open when I eventually took the bath I needed, in case I collapsed or fell asleep in there. And in case Cas wanted to come in and help me out.

He did. And did.

V

Later that morning we returned to Mr. Hockaday's house. The man was clearly champing at the bit, but we had not been there five minutes when we were interrupted by one of Mr. Hockaday's servants, who whispered something to him. He shook his head.

“I am busy”, he said. “He will have to wait, or call later.”

“If that is Inspector Bradley, then you should allow him to come up”, Cas said. “I invited him here.”

“You did what?” Mr. Hockaday almost yelled.

“I thought it best. After all, a crime has been committed. And you strike me as the sort of person who would rather it was all sorted out quickly, today if possible. Unless you wish the police to spend months investigating every single aspect of your affairs?”

“No!” the man almost squeaked. “Send him up!”

+~+~+

“Whilst I was coming here”, Cas began, “one thing struck me particularly about this crime. Assuming that Mr. Crowley was innocent, it had to be one of the other three people, surely? But a 'turf war', as the expression goes, is a dangerous thing, and in this line of business it can be fatal. Like on the battlefield, one is never sure if there may come a moment when supposed allies may suddenly turn on you. So I considered an alternative. Suppose that two of the other three had connived in the framing of Mr. Crowley. They would then be in a much stronger position, because they could choose their moment to turn on the unsuspecting third person. For once, it was not which of a group of people was guilty, but which was innocent. I was fortunate to establish quite early on that you, Mr. Hockaday, were the innocent party.”

“Of course!” he growled. 

Cas smiled beatifically at him. I had reached twelve before he cracked.

“Er, how, exactly?” he asked.

“Because that bauble on display upstairs is a fake.”

“What?” Our host shot to his feet.

“Calm yourself”, Cas said. “Doubtless Miss Wollaston and Mr. Vine are currently having a pleasant discussion as to how to make the most money from the original, which is currently in their possession.”

“Sir, you will have to be more explicit”, Inspector Bradley intoned. “I cannot enter either of these people's houses without a good reason.”

“I will tell you how the crime was committed”, Cas said. “It was quite ingenious. First, there were two clues in the costumes the people chose.”

“The costumes?” Mr. Hockaday asked.

“Both Miss Wollaston and Mr. Vine chose Scottish rulers, which seemed natural enough as both have Scots ancestry. And as Robert the Bruce, Mr. Vine was wearing a kilt. The sporran worn at the front of that item of apparel is a receptacle most ideal for storing small items such as the Devil's Foot.”

“But when did he take it?” Mr. Hockaday asked.

“Whilst you and two of the guards were outside, investigating that oddly-timed firework, Miss Wollaston talked with Mr. Crowley, and Mr. Vine waited for the guard to become distracted for a moment. Since the Devil's Foot was on display at the British Museum only recently, it would have featured in their catalogue, and it was easy for Mr. Vine and Miss Wollaston to order the replica they brought with them for the evening, the item which is currently upstairs. Mr. Vine is an expert thief, and his sleight of hand made sure that the switch was unnoticed.”

“The bastard!” Mr. Hockaday ground out. 

“That you did not know it was a fake upstairs showed that you were the one person not included in the scheme”, Cas went on. “You did however neglect to tell me one thing, namely that the idea for the fluorescent paint came from your fellow 'business associates'. I dare say that Miss Wollaston had some paint on a pair of lady's gloves she was wearing when she shook hands with Mr. Crowley earlier in the evening, then made sure to dispose of said gloves before the 'theft' was discovered, and put on a second pair she had brought. The originals were probably thrown into a fire during the commotion after the theft was discovered.”

“But what about the woman who distracted the guard?” Mr. Hockaday asked. “What was the point of that if the thing had already been switched?”

“Because the item had to be taken at the right time in order to focus suspicion on Mr. Crowley”, Cas said. “Lying is an inherent part of your profession, sir, but withholding information from a private detective is never in your interests. As Mr. Biggerson said, Mr. Crowley went back upstairs later for another look at the Devil's Foot. One of Miss Wollaston's agents was waiting for him to do exactly that. When she saw him leave the party, she quickly distracted the guard, so suspicion would fall on the intended target. The agent, or more likely a second associate, probably also took the opportunity to place the replica beneath the table, where it would be found later to your eternal embarrassment.”

Mr. Hockaday blushed.

“So which of them has it, do you think?” the inspector asked.

“I would be inclined to try Miss Wollaston first”, Cas said. “As Mr. Vine prefers not to employ female staff, the distracting lady must have been hers. It is ironic, I suppose, that such a virulent misogynist such as he was prepared to work with a woman to remove two male rivals, though once they had finished, they would inevitably have turned on each other.”

“I shall go there now”, the inspector said, standing up. “Thank you, sir.”

“Yes, thank you”, Mr, Hockaday echoed. “I only hope I get the thing back.”

+~+~+

He did. The bracelet was traced to Miss Wollaston's house, as Cas had predicted, but obtaining a prosecution against them proved impossible due to the lack of witnesses. However, Mr. Crowley was fulsome in his gratitude at being released (the sulky pout on Sergeant Winter's face was particularly pleasurable!), and he later told us that both Miss Wollaston and Mr. Vine had subsequently decided to 'retire from the business'.

+~+~+

Two more cases with ties to the lands of the Nile would follow this one, and next time it would be a matter of double-crossing and deceit.....


	10. Case 90: Tall Tales (1897-1898)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as 'the case of the retired colourman'.

I

It was one of those strange coincidences that our adventure with the Devil’s Foot, which began its life several millennia before in the land of the Pharaohs, was followed by two other cases that involved the same part of the world. Fortunately neither took us to the area itself – I positively hate hot countries, and had found even the southern United States unbearable during my brief and unhappy time there – but both were tied into events which, had they turned out otherwise, could have led to a very different ending to the Great War that everyone on the Continent of Europe knew was coming, thanks to an increasingly aggressive Germany.  
   
This case began with the announcement that Mr. Ashland Lindberg, our recent import from the United States, was engaged to be married to Miss Harvelle. The news came as a shock to me, but not it seems to Cas; I had thought the two could not stand each other, as they were arguing more often than not, but it seems that I was mistaken. This happened in December of eighteen hundred and ninety-seven, and plans were begun for a wedding the following spring. It was those plans which indirectly brought us our next case.  
   
Neither Mr. Lindberg nor Miss Harvelle were religious, but our landlady made it clear that a church wedding was not negotiable as long as her future son-in-law required the continued use of various appendages. That and Mr. Singer's pointed cleaning of his own gun at the table seemed to have decided matters. The nearby church of St. Cyprian’s was the chosen venue, and its vicar, the Reverend Augustus Montague, became a regular fixture at Baker Street that winter. 

One day just before Christmas, he brought a guest with him, a Miss Florence Mallilee, and asked if we would meet with her. We agreed, and she was shown up to our rooms.  
   
Miss Mallilee was one of those ladies for whom the term ‘sprightly’ may have been invented. She was about fifty, neatly-dressed and looked nervous at being in the famous fireside chair, but there was an air of determination about her. I was just thinking to myself that thankfully Cas was too old for women to simper at when she did just that, and immediately lost several points in my regard as a result.  
   
“The Reverend urged me to tell you gentlemen all”, she said in a quiet voice. “But there is so little to tell. It just seems… odd.”  
   
“The doctor and I undertake many investigations that fit just that description”, Cas smiled. “We are prepared to consider any case, madam, great or small. Pray tell us what is troubling you.”  
   
Thus prompted, the lady folded her hands in her lap and began.  
   
“Every Sunday after Morning Service, the Church Association holds a small Sunday luncheon for some of the retired gentlemen and ladies living in the area”, she began. “It is normally quite restricted, as we only allow fourteen members at any one time, but recently a most polite elderly gentleman moved to the area – well, just over the border in Paddington - and he was recommended to our little group. His name is Mr. Aumary de Montfort, an alpha, and he is a former colourman, having just retired from a company that was working for the British Army out in Egypt.”  
   
A most interesting part of the world just then, as I knew from the daily papers. When De Lessups had built his great canal across the Isthmus of Suez, everyone had expected it to lead to a resurgence of French influence in that part of the world, which had caused nervousness in London despite the informal alliance between the two countries. However, France’s subsequent defeat to Bismarck’s Prussia, coupled with the British buying out the Khedive’s stake in the canal, had combined to put London ahead of Paris in that part of the world, much to the chagrin of the latter. There was any number of rumours as to what the French might try to alter that situation, though nothing had come to light as yet.  
   
“Do you happen to know exactly what Mr. de Montfort was doing in that part of the world?” I inquired.  
   
“That is Gentlemen’s business”, she said, colouring slightly. “A Lady would never ask!”  
   
I felt the reproof. Cas merely smiled.  
   
“Something has happened with this gentleman?” he pressed gently. She blushed.  
   
“It is really not my place”, she said. “I am only someone who serves him tea at the weekend. But when he first came to us, he was much happier. I think he was glad to be back home in dear old England, and he did say that he had a comfortable pension and everything. But then there was the shooting.”

“Shooting?” I asked, surprised. She nodded.

“A gun he was firing went off unexpectedly, and he had to have his arm put in a cast”, she said. “The police looked at it afterwards, and said it was just faulty.”  
   
Cas looked at her shrewdly.

“You do not think it was an accident?” he asked.

“I suppose if the police say so”, she said. “But the incident seems to have depressed him for some reason, and he is not what he was.”

Cas looked at her shrewdly.  
   
“There is something you have not told us”, he said flatly. “It is not just the change in manner that has worried you. That can happen to people for a whole variety of reasons. What else has happened, Miss Mallilee?”  
   
I wondered for a minute of she was going to deny it – Cas had a way of seeing through people, and few enjoyed the experience – but she folded almost immediately.  
   
“A foreign gentleman came to the vicarage asking questions about Mr. de Montfort”, she said. “Definitely French; my niece is learning the language at school for some reason. I was arranging flowers for the church at the time, and overheard him.”  
   
“What did he look like?” Cas asked.  
   
“Very tall”, she said. “I think he had something wrong with his leg, because he walked with a limp. And he had an eyeglass, too. Very affected, in my opinion.”  
   
I smiled at her xenophobia.  
   
“As I am sure you are aware”, Cas said, “many cases that we investigate turn out to be something and nothing. The doctor does not publish those, because people do not like to be bored when they read. It may be that this matter has a simple explanation; however, it intrigues me, and I am inclined to look further into it. If you leave us your address, I shall endeavour to keep you informed as to my progress.”

“Thank you, sir”, she said.  
   
+~+~+

Christmas that year was wonderful, as my little brother (he so hates me calling him that!) and his family came down to London. Cas arranged for them to put up at Gabriel’s latest hotel, Claridge’s – I should add that the frequency with which Cas’s brother changed jobs was totally due to his organizational and cooking skills being so much in demand – and they visited us every day. I had finished my work on Fresh Blood (the Norwood builder case from two years ago) which would be published in the Strand magazine in the New Year, and all seemed well with the world.

+~+~+

Cas and I had decided on a rather unusual choice of present to each other that year. Get your mind out of the gutter this minute! All right, we did, but that was not the actual present!

We proposed to Mrs. Singer to fund the extension of our bathroom, which backed onto a little-used cupboard, and which would enable a separate shower unit to be fitted. Of course Cas with his resources insisted on funding the greater part of the exercise, and it could not be started until spring at the earliest, but I looked forward to using the larger room, even if it meant a few months of temporary discomfort. 

“I shall miss the old tub”, I said one day, as the two of us were soaking in in together, Cas between my legs as my cock nuzzled against his backside. 

“The new one is a little larger”, Cas said. “We shall be able to stretch out more. And relax more easily.”

I was feeling relaxed now all right. We had just got back from seeing off Sammy and his brood off at King's Cross, and I felt supremely happy. Especially with Cas grinding himself against my rapidly hardening cock.

“You're asking for it!” I muttered, kissing the back of his neck. 

“Are you sure you are up to it?” he asked. “I mean, in a few weeks' time you'll be forty-six years old. Not quite ancient, but older people have less energy, I know.”

II

I growled, and stopped his teasing by easing him up and onto my hard cock. He growled back at me, then surprised me by sinking straight down onto me in one swift movement. I gave him a love-bite for that, but then I rather lost focus as he quite literally dragged the orgasm out of me, like I was some sort of dildo with a human stuck on the other end. Had I not been several stages beyond nirvana, I might have objected. 

“Seems you can still perform to par, Dean”, he teased, leaning his head back and kissing me languidly before his hand joined mine in jerking him off to orgasm as well. Then he sank back into me, a blissed-out lump which I gently washed down with the flannel.

“I can go all night if necessary!” I boasted.

“Really?” he whispered, his voice loud in the silent steam of the bathroom. “Let's try that.”

I swallowed hard. And that night, the bastard woke me up every hour on the hour to demand sex. It was a sorry state the following day, and it did not help my mood that he seemed as bright and cheerful as he always was once he was fully caffeinated. But even though I was totally shattered and sitting down was an action to only be undertaken with great caution, I loved the man. 

I might not live to reach fifty with all the sex, but I loved the man!

+~+~+  
   
In the celebration of the festive season and my brother's family's visit, I had almost forgotten about Miss Mallilee and her retired colourman. However, the case was brought back to my attention with a start in January when I read an article in the Times.  
   
“Cas!” I exclaimed. “Listen to this!”  
   
He looked up from his book.  
   
“’A break-in has occurred at Scarab End, the London home of Mr. Aumary de Montfort, recently arrived in the Paddington area from Egypt’”, I read. “’Fortunately a passing policeman, Constable Tulloch, spotted the front door was slightly ajar and came to investigate, causing the thieves to flee through the back garden. Mr. de Montfort reports that nothing has apparently been taken.’”  
   
“It seems that Miss Mallilee was correct”, Cas said. “Are you free to visit the scene of the crime today, Dean? I know you have one call to make?”

“I am just checking in on young Mrs. Trevithick”, I said. “Her morning sickness is lasting a little longer than is usual, which is a little worrisome. But she actually lives in Paddington. We could go to see Mr. de Montfort afterwards, if that is acceptable?”  
   
“Indeed”, he smiled.  
   
We were interrupted by a knock at the door, and Mrs. Singer entered. She looked distinctly annoyed. Sure enough, Mr. Balthazar Novak was behind her. I groaned inwardly. The man had reluctantly been admitted back into our lives a couple of months before, when he had needed Cas' advice on a small case involving a government minister in a financial scandal. He still clearly disapproved of our relationship, and there was something of a wary truce between us all.  
   
“Him!” Mrs. Harvelle snapped, glaring at the visitor before brushing past him and leaving.  
   
“I am not exactly feeling the love here, Castiel”, our visitor said testily. “I cannot stay long. Lord Peebles may be on the verge of causing a minor crisis in the Lords, and the government needs me.”  
   
“Don’t let us keep you, then”, I said testily.  
   
Cas gave me a look of only mild reproof. He (very generously, in my opinion) had accepted his brother's apology after their falling-out, but relations between them were still not back to normal.  
   
“What do you want, Balthazar?” he asked coolly.  
   
“You are holding a case for a Miss Florence Mallilee, in regard to the investigation of a retired colourman”, he said.  
   
I was not even surprised that he knew about it.  
   
“What of it?” Cas asked.  
   
“It would be wise to drop it”, his brother said.  
   
“Not unless you give me a reason why I should turn down a client”, Cas said.  
   
“She is not even paying you!” Balthazar Novak said scornfully. “Let it go, Castiel. This case goes deeper than even you are used to dealing with.”  
   
Cas stared at him pointedly.  
   
“If that was your only reason”, he said stiffly, “you will have to do better.”  
   
“Fine!” his brother snapped. “Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you. I’ll see myself out.”  
   
He strode to the door, and was gone. I stared after him, feeling decidedly uneasy.  
   
“Dean”, Cas said slowly, “if you feel uncomfortable about this…”  
   
“Like Hell am I letting you face this alone!” I snorted. “I’m getting my bag! And my gun!”  
   
He smiled.  
   
III  
   
I did not know what to expect when we arrived at Scarab End, but the house in front of me was not it. I stared in astonishment.

“That”, I said firmly, “is not the property of a retired colourman! Not unless he is also a secret millionaire!”

Although Paddington was a mostly middle-class residential area around the Great Western Railway's terminus, it did possess a small number of secluded areas, and Scarab End lay in one of them. A quiet little cul-de-sac leading away from another rarely-used road, it consisted of only half a dozen houses, the last of which lay before us. The house itself was a standard family-sized affair, but the grounds were.. well, I would venture as far as massive.

We presented our cards, and were shown up to the study of Mr. Aumary de Montfort. He was a fine old alpha, and I noted the number of military-themed portraits around the room as we sat down with him.

“I hope you will pardon the intrusion”, Cas began, “but we are here about the break-in last night.”

The old man raised an eyebrow at us.

“I was not aware that consulting detectives concerned themselves with such trivial matters as household burglaries”, he observed. 

“In light of where you have returned from of late, sir”, Cas said, “it may not be such a trivial matter.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“This is a secluded area”, Cas said, “and it seems rather coincidental that it was your house that was targeted. My concern is that the thieves may try again.”

“They will find little of value here”, the man scoffed. “And I am more than proficient with a weapon, I assure you!”

“That would be from your nephew?” Cas asked, to my surprise. The old man smiled.

“Your reputation does not do you an injustice”, he said. “Yes, Peter taught me.” He looked across at me. “Sir Peter de Montfort, commanding officer of the 2nd Dorsetshires, currently stationed in Egypt, doctor.”

“Ah”, I said. “The military connection.”

“I still own a majority share in the paint company, Blackstone, de Monfort and Fordham, which is why I am able to afford a place like this, as I am sure you were wondering”, he smiled. “Peter kindly engaged my company to do some work in Egypt before I retired.”

“And someone thinks you may have information about future events in that part of the world”, Cas said. 

“My brother did send me a letter, and he mentioned what he had planned”, the man admitted. “Naturally I have locked it away somewhere safe. I told Sergeant Winter about it, though.”

I groaned inwardly. It was just my luck that that obnoxious personage was involved in the case. 

“May we be allowed to see the letter?” Cas asked.

I thought the colourman hesitated slightly, but he nodded and crossed to a writing desk, unlocked a draw with his key, and extracted a single sheet of paper. Cas read it, and a slow smile creased his features.

“I see”, he said, handing it back. “Well, it seems that we can have no further business here at present. But take care, sir. We may be dealing with governments here, and as I am sure you know, they make most criminal organizations looked positively scrupulous!”

“I will take care”, the man smiled.

+~+~+

“What was in the letter?” I asked. “Anything of note?”

“His brother talked of plans to secure western Egypt, along the borders with the Ottoman Empire”, Cas said. "Possibly inciting the provinces west of Egypt to seek independence, or at least to request the status of a British protectorate."

“Rather indiscreet of him”, I observed. “Letters can be easily intercepted. And why are we looking at that place, anyway? Isn't it all just sand?”

“Remember that the family is descended from the same stock that gave us the great Earl Simon”, Cas said. “We should not underestimate them. Though I appreciate the irony.”

“What irony?” I asked, confused.

“The original de Montforts were French who ended up becoming quintessentially English”, Cas smiled. “History does indeed love to repeat itself!”

+~+~+

We returned to Baker Street, the case seemingly having come to a halt. A few days passed, and nothing much happened except for a sharp snowfall and equally sharp thaw, until one morning our breakfast was interrupted by two guests, neither of whom was welcome. Mr. Balthazar Novak and Sergeant Winter.

“This is a disaster, Castiel!” the lounge-lizard stormed, pacing up and down the room. “It is all your fault.”

“How is that?” I demanded before Cas could speak. His brother scowled at me.

“You must have been seen going to that damned house, and they took the letter. The French know everything, damn it!

“Balthazar!”

Cas did not shout, but the anger in his voice caused his brother to freeze mid-step. My friend gestured to the chair, and the look on his face scared even me. Balthazar Novak sat down, but was still frowning.

“That idiot de Montfort”, he said. “A police officer came to his house yesterday, and asked for a copy of the letter. Not the original, he was very clear to state; his bosses wanted to examine the content. The colourman wrote one out for him, and he took it. Except the man was a fake! A French agent!”

“Then clearly someone knew about the letter”, Cas said patiently. “Did Mr. de Montfort tell anybody about it?”

“No”, his brother scowled. “You and the doctor were the only ones who knew.”

“And Sergeant Winter here”, I put in. “Plus the constables he took with him to the house.”

“I only took Penfold”, the sergeant snapped. “And he's as loyal as the day is long.”

“The fake officer even had a letter signed by Winter here”, Balthazar Novak moaned, “so he must at least know someone who works at the station. That letter, or at least the contents of it, are certainly in Paris by now.”

“Then you should be away dealing with the resultant political fallout”, Cas said mildly. “One can hardly blame Mr. de Montfort for believing an English policeman, especially when backed with a letter signed by a sergeant. Unless Mr. Winter here can remember signing something pushed in front of him without checking?”

The sergeant looked set to deny this, but suddenly went red.

“Sergeant?” Balthazar Novak asked coolly.

“Constable Graham”, he said dully. “He asked me to sign a form just as I was leaving for a meeting yesterday morning. And he is not in today.”

“Possibly a visit to that man's house might be in order”, Cas said with a yawn. “I am expecting a client today, so I cannot help. Good day, gentlemen.”

Our two visitors hurried out, and were mercifully gone. 

“So they got the letter after all”, I said. “And Constable Graham is a traitor to his country.”

Cas smiled, then stood up and went to his writing-desk and jotted down something on a piece of paper. He then went to the door, opened it and called down to Miss Harvelle, who was presumably nearby, and gave it to her before returning to the table.

“Who is the client you are expecting?” I asked. “A new one?”

“Not exactly”, he said. “But I expect them here this morning. I hope you can tear yourself away from over-dramatizing our latest adventures for the populace of the metropolis.”

I scowled at him, but I knew he was only teasing.

IV

It was barely an hour later that the expected client showed up. I was surprised to find that it was none other than Miss Florence Mallilee.

“Greetings, madam”, Cas said as he showed her to the fireside chair. “I hope I have not incommoded you by my sudden summons?”

She looked somewhat nervous, I thought. 

“Not at all, sir”, she said. “You did say you would keep me informed as to developments in the matter of Mr. de Montfort.”

“Indeed I did”, Cas said with a smile. “And there have most definitely been developments.” 

He paused.

“In my line of work, I sometimes have to deal with that most cruel, heartless and vindictive of organizations, the national government”, he began. “This case seemingly began when you informed me of the recent arrival to your area of Mr. Aumary de Montfort, a retired colourman, over whom you had some concerns.”

She nodded.

“More properly”, Cas went on, “the case truly begins some months earlier. Anyone who can read a newspaper knows that the British Army is currently fighting a rebellion in the area known as the lower Sudan, north of where the two branches of the great River Nile meet. After several embarrassing setbacks, that campaign seems to be moving towards a conclusion which will solidify the British grip on Egypt, much to the annoyance of the French government.”

“However, the area where the river actually divides is as yet unclaimed, and it happens to lie on an axis between French holdings in West Africa and Somaliland. If the French could establish themselves there, it would not only cut off British interests in north and south Africa from each other, but it might even allow them to threaten the water supply to British Egypt. So of course the French would be more than a little interested to know precisely where the armies currently finishing off the Sudanese plan to go next.”

“I do not 'do' politics, sir”, our guest smiled. Cas shook his head at her.

“Oh, I rather think you do, Miss Mallilee”, he said, sounding almost playful. “That great tome Who's Who would tell its readers that the commanding officer of the 2nd Dorsetshires is Sir Peter de Montfort, and that his uncle is retired and now living in Paddington. It would be a reasonable assumption that Sir Peter might write to his uncle, and a hope for any French government agent that he might be indiscreet enough to pass on information as to where his unit is going next.”

“I do hope you are not accusing a British Army officer of treachery”, she said hotly.

“I merely said they might hope”, Cas pointed out. “I did not say that the hope would be justified. As it happened, it was not.”

“But we saw the letter”, I protested. “Or at least you did.”

“Yes, the letter”, Cas smiled. “A very interesting letter. In that part of the world, the paper is still very rough, you know. Paper like that can easily trap fibres from the clothes of the person writing on it.”

He stared at our guest meaningfully. She coloured.

“I don't get it”, I said, confused. 

“Sir Peter never wrote a letter to his brother, or at least, nothing about his future plans for his unit”, Cas said. “The man is a commanding officer, not a fool. However, he did scheme with his brother to lay a trap for the French. Mr. Aumary brought home several sheets of army paper, and planned to write a fake letter which would lead the French astray if they ever got hold of it. However, the shooting incident led to his being unable to write properly, so he obtained the services of a certain lady in a mauve dress, two fibres of which became caught in the poor-quality paper. It was that lady's ill-luck that she had already mentioned her concerns about the man to a consulting detective, who pursued the case very thoroughly.”

I looked at Miss Mallilee in admiration.

“So the French think we are heading west, not south”, I said with a grin. “Oh dear!”

“And when a large British force faces them at wherever they place themselves, they will have to back down”, Cas said. “It is again ironic that our allies seem determined to break our unwritten agreement, and do Kaiser Wilhelm's work for them.”

“Aumary asked me to write the letter for him, and told me everything”, Miss Mallilee said stoutly. “And I would do it all again if I had to.”

I had no doubt that she would.

+~+~+

Postscript: It should be added that, as Cas had predicted, two French armies were already en route to meet in the southern Sudan, at the small village of Fashoda, although only one would make it. That move would spark a diplomatic incident which would also include our next case, and prove to us once more – as if we needed it - that governments of no hue could ever be trusted.

+~+~+

In the last of our Egyptian adventures that did not involve going to Egypt, Egypt comes to England. Or nor. And once again, governments of whatever nationality prove that they cannot be trusted.


	11. Case 91: Hello, Cruel World (1898)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as the affair of the two Coptic Patriarchs'.

I

It was typical, perhaps, that one case involving the machinations of governments followed on so soon from another, let alone our run of Egyptian-themed cases. Heavy snows that January had brought most of London to a standstill, which Cas in particular rejoiced in as he did not have to go and see his family. I should probably have taken the time to press ahead with my writings, but there was something uniquely wonderful about sitting by a blazing fire holding a hot (in both senses) angel in my arms, both of us wrapped in a blanket and just enjoying the silence. In amidst all this being busy doing nothing, I at least managed to make a start on 'The Man Who Would Be King'. 

The major event of that first month of 'Ninety-Eight was the totally unexpected engagement of Mr. Balthazar Novak, whose relationship with his brother remained 'difficult' (I can hear him quirking an eyebrow at my choice of words there). The lucky – and I use the term in its widest sense - lady was one Mrs. Muriel Bannerman, who had had an affair with him some eight years ago, from which a son had resulted. She had considered him unsuitable for a father, and had found instead a tolerable beta, a rich businessman called Mark Bannerman, who had married her and adopted her son Stephen as his own. However, her mate had died whilst in Africa on business, and she had decided (and I shall always remember the straight face Cas kept when he told me) that her former lover was 'better than nothing, just about'. That the marriage would take place not long after my looming birthday was also a little surprising, but I supposed that the prospective Mrs. Novak did not wish to give her potential husband time to change his mind. Or run away!

Mrs. Bannerman had called on us before the wedding and apologized for not inviting us, but her own family from Essex were extremely conservative in their views, and she did not want her elderly grandfather, who was not expected to last the year out, to be upset by any argument. I privately thought that the Novaks themselves were 'conservative' enough, but held my tongue, and she did arrange for slices of the wedding-cake to be sent to us afterwards, which was considerate of her. I might add that she was an extremely forceful woman, and I may or may not have smiled to think of her keeping Balthazar Novak in his place.

All right, I did. Quite a lot.

It was a surprisingly warm late January morning when I stumbled out of the bedroom to find, unusually, Cas up and fully caffeinated. It had been a stormy night, and the weather had seemed to drive Cas to even greater feats of endurance than usual, as he had come inside me three times before falling onto me and straight asleep. I had held him all night, thinking to myself how lucky I was. I picked up the Times, and was immediately struck by the single word emblazoned across its front page.  
   
“’Fashoda!’” I read.  
   
Cas looked up at me.  
   
“Pardon?” he said.  
   
“You were right”, I said, reading the first paragraph. “The French have tried to seize the upper Nile at some place called Fashoda, and General Kitchener has caught them there.”  
   
At the start of the month, the British forces had finally won a decisive victory over the forces of the Mahdi, the religious leader who had held sway in Sudan for far too long. Less than fifty British dead for over ten thousand of the enemy, with thousands more captured, the article said. The rebels would certainly regroup under a new leader, but their position now was untenable. However, the French, profiting by the British being distracted as Cas had thought they would during our recent case, had indeed tried to secure the upper Sudan for themselves. A small French force of barely a hundred men was at Fashoda, and I silently thanked God for a sensible general like Kitchener (and, presumably, his French counterpart) for holding off for now.  
   
“The French may stand their ground, despite being outnumbered”, Cas said warningly. “There are many in Paris who resent their informal alliance with England. Berlin must be delighted at this development.”  
   
I could not but agree, little knowing how the desert stand-off thousands of miles away was to have repercussions for us in the very near future.  
   
+~+~+  
   
Berlin may have been (and almost certainly was) pleased with the discord between London and Paris, but the soon-to-be-married Mr. Balthazar Novak most definitely was not. I had thought his unwelcome arrival in Baker Street was merely to grouse about his extra workload, but it turned out that he wanted Cas’ help on a case. I noted with some amusement he looked tired, and wondered if the potential Mrs. Novak was responsible. Their honeymoon, in the United States, was postponed until later in the year, presumably in the hope of better weather for the long crossing.  
   
At the start of the month”, he said, “a British warship, HMS Ajax, departed from Alexandria. It had on board two Coptic patriarchs, Father Benedictus and Father Fidelis, and was headed for England, landing at Plymouth a week or so later. It had been arranged that a member of the government would greet the men and escort them to London for talks, but he missed them, and they set off for London on their own.”  
   
“Why were they coming to London?” Cas asked.  
   
“That is classified information”, his brother said crisply.  
   
Cas pointed across the room. “And that”, he said just as crisply, “is the door.”  
   
His brother scowled, but was quickly resigned to his fate.  
   
“All right”, he grumbled. “The current Egyptian government is making things difficult for the Coptic Church, to the point where there is some small talk of an insurrection. Probably nothing, but bearing in mind the situation at a certain riverside trading post just now, the British Army is severely overstretched. We cannot afford trouble in Egypt whilst our backs are turned.”  
   
“I take it something has happened to these men”, Cas said.  
   
“They are both dead”, Balthazar said grimly. “And when their colleagues back in Pharaoh Land find out, there will be hell to pay!”  
   
II  
   
“Of course the two priests were safe on board one of Her Majesty’s ships”, Balthazar said. “But it doesn’t take a genius to know that few ships travelled from Egypt back to here last month, and someone could have had agents waiting at Plymouth just in case.”  
   
“The French?” I ventured.  
   
“Who else?” our guest said morosely, slumping into the fireside chair. “Probably out of the country by now, whisked away by a fast yacht or something.”  
   
“What happened?” Cas asked.  
   
“That was the even stranger part”, our guest said. “The Ajax's officers said that they escorted the priests to the Great Western Railway's station in Plymouth, where they got on the express to London. They did not wait to see it leave, however. After they had gone, the priests must for some reason have changed their minds, and taken a cab to the Devonport station of the London and South Western Railway, which is bizarre as they could barely have known this country.”

“That does seem bizarre”, I said. “That route is slower, if I remember.”

“True”, our guest agreed. “I checked, and there were no accidents or delays on the Great Western route that would have caused such a change of plan. Anyway, the conductor entered their compartment around Okehampton, and found both men dead, each shot with a single bullet to the heart.”  
   
Cas nodded.  
   
“Did the train make any stops before they were found?” he asked.  
   
“The train was slowing for Okehampton”, his brother said, “and it had stopped at Lydford where they crossed onto L.S.W.R. tracks officially. The line up to there is owned by another company, the Plymouth, Devonport and South Western Junction. Really a front for the South Western.”  
   
Cas looked across at me.  
   
“I really need you on this case, doctor”, he said. “Are you able to go west with us?”  
   
“Of course”, I smiled, feeling even more warmed by his brother's scowl.  
   
“Bring your medical bag”, Cas advised. “And your gun. I have a feeling that you will need one or the other, possibly both.”  
   
+~+~+  
   
The bodies of the two priests had been taken to Okehampton police station, so it was to that town that we directed ourselves. The recent sudden thaw had caused some disruption with flooding, but our railway companies were used to such things, and all was well as we sped westwards. 

It had. It had of course proven impractical to detain everyone on a ten-coach express, so Balthazar Novak was probably right in that the culprits had got away. I did not see what he expected Cas to be able to do, or what my friend hoped I could achieve, but I was determined to do my best by him.  
   
It would be fair to describe our reception at the police station in the little moorland town as mixed. Sergeant Venables was an avid reader of my books, and was clearly delighted at Cas’ involvement in the case. The same could not be said of Doctor Morris, the local doctor who had made the initial examination of the bodies before a police expert had arrived from London. He seemed annoyed that the sergeant gave willing permission for me to examine the bodies, and was clearly striving to hold his tongue. Before I went in, Cas pulled me to one side.  
   
“Dean”, he said in a low voice, “I do not want to prejudice your examination. But I wish you to pay particular attention to the teeth of the two men in there, and tell me exactly what you find.”  
   
I did not see the relevance of that at all, but nodded my agreement, went inside and began my examination. Both priests had been in their forties, Father Benedictus slightly older, I thought. He was also the healthier of the two, though both were underweight, and both slightly shorter than average. I examined their mouths with great care, but could not find the slightest thing unusual about their teeth, both sets seeming in a good condition for men of their ages.  
   
I had almost done when I spotted something that was unusual, a small tattoo on Father Benedictus’ ankle. It seemed to be a word of some sort, and I could make out what seemed to be ‘kerenza’. I do not think of myself as the least bit imaginative, but somehow I knew this was not only important but potentially deadly. I wrote the word down in my notebook, and went back out to report my (lack of) findings.  
   
+~+~+  
   
“You found something”, Cas said as we walked down the High Street. His brother was in the post office, sending a telegram.  
   
“I found nothing about the teeth”, I said. “And I looked closely, but they were perfectly normal for what men of their age should have had.”  
   
To my surprise, that news seemed to depress my friend.  
   
“I was afraid of that”, he said heavily. “Was there anything else?”  
   
“Yes”, I said, taking out my notebook. “One of them had this word tattooed on his ankle. Very small writing; I almost missed it.”  
   
His face darkened even more.  
   
“Come”, he said. “There is little more we can do here. We should get to our train.”  
   
“Is something wrong?” I asked.  
   
“Very”, he said.  
   
III  
   
“Well?” Balthazar Novak asked, as we sat down in our compartment and waited for the train to set off.  
   
“I am not some sort of performing dog”, Cas said acidly. “But I do have a question. You said that you sent someone down to meet the priests off the boat. Why was this not co-ordinated with the ship’s crew, so the men could be passed over safely?  
   
“It was”, his brother groused. “But the man had a minor crisis at home, and missed the express. By the time he reached Exeter he knew he would not make it, so he decided to wait there for the train he thought they would be on.”  
   
“Hmm”, Cas said. “Who was the man in question?”  
   
“A Mr. Henry Goodchild”, Mr. Balthazar Novak said. “Dull but dependable.”  
   
“Your department?” I asked.  
   
“Hell, no!" Balthazar Novak exclaimed forcibly. “I cannot be tied down to one department. We are both in the Foreign Office, but in totally different areas.”  
   
Cas pressed his fingers together in thought.  
   
“What is the most likely outcome from the priests’ murders?” he asked. “Apart from the instability along the Nile.”  
   
“The British government will probably look foolish when it comes out”, his brother admitted. “And the War Office will gloat mightily. I would say they would be unbearable, but they passed that some time ago.”  
   
“Children all!” Cas sighed.  
   
“Why?” I asked.  
   
“There are those in the War Office who want to take over the Foreign Office, and make one super-department of state”, Balthazar Novak said. “The never-ending game of turf wars.”  
   
“Except if the French do not back down at Fashoda, we may have the wars without the turf”, Cas said. “I presume the War Office would welcome the chance to take down the French a peg or four, whilst the Foreign Office is advising caution?”  
   
“True”, his brother said glumly. “I am sorry for dragging you both down here. I do not know why I thought you could help.”  
   
“On the contrary”, Cas said. “I can point you in the direction of the priests’ killers – or at least the people who paid them – fairly easily.”  
   
The train chose that moment to start, and Cas’ brother nearly fell to the floor in surprise.  
   
“How?” he demanded.  
   
“Well, when we get to Exeter, the doctor and I are going to double back and head to Plymouth via the Great Western Railway”, Cas said.  
   
“But why?” his brother demanded. “Tell me!”  
   
“Because whoever arranged this will certainly have someone in Okehampton who will have monitored our departure”, Cas said, “and I wish to create for them a pleasant little illusion that we are headed back to the Great Wen. In reality, the doctor and I will hopefully spend tomorrow finishing the case for you.”  
   
His brother scowled at him.  
   
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” he sulked.  
   
“Not just yet”, Cas said. “But I will give you a clue.”  
   
“What?”  
   
“Love is the answer.”  
   
The scowl became a glare. I tried to suppress a chuckle, but failed dismally.  
   
+~+~+  
   
I was surprised when we arrived at Plymouth Station that Cas insisted on checking into the luxurious Great Western Hotel. However, he insisted that he had his reasons.  
   
“I am looking for one person in particular, who masterminded this whole thing”, he said. “I have reason to suspect that this person would only have stayed at one of the very best hotels in the town.”  
   
We were fortunate. Miss Gussett, the receptionist at the hotel (sixty if she was a day!) melted as usual under Cas' charm, and was eager to help. Cas told her of a gentleman he was looking for who had reached Plymouth on the day of the killings, and would probably have requested the best room they had. Yes, there had been a gentleman who had arrived just over a week ago, and was still in the hotel, due to leave the following morning. A Mr. Smith in the master suite. Cas thanked her profusely, and we retired to our own room.

“Who is this Mr. Smith?” I asked. “I assume that that is not his real name?”

“I would be very much surprised if it was”, Cas said. “Unfortunately he is likely to stay in his room all the way through to his departure, but we may have an opportunity to search it whilst he is at breakfast tomorrow morning.”

“Search it for what?” I asked.

“For his real identity”, Cas said grimly. “If we are to procure any sort of justice, we must have that before he leaves.”

+~+~+

I awoke in a very comfortable bed to find six foot one of glorious alpha wrapped around me. Yes, life was good.

Cas was rubbing himself against me in his sleep, and I smiled down at the impossible bed-head. Even when in slumber, he still sought me out. I eased myself carefully down his body, nibbling at his neck before tracing a path down to first one nipple and then the other. He sighed happily, but did not open his eyes.

All right, I would have to up my game. He was already half-hard, and I gently rubbed him to full-mast, then eased down even further and began to run my tongue up and down the underside of his cock. He writhed beneath me, letting out little grunts of satisfaction, but those blue eyes remained closed. 

Being a doctor sometimes had its advantages, so I gently fingered him open and inserted one finger, whilst taking his cock-head into my mouth and humming, something I knew he loved. It was hard concentrating on that and seeking out his prostate at one and the same time, but if I twisted my finger just so......

He let out a startled cry and came without warning flooding my mouth with his come. He seemed to have momentarily lost control of his body, for when he stopped shaking he swiftly pulled me up and began apologizing.

“Hey, Cas”, I grinned, dabbing a spot of his own come onto his nose, “I don't mind. Seeing you like that – it's good that I can still do that to you!”

He smiled at me so lovingly that my heart almost broke, then pulled me into a kiss, tonguing his own come from my mouth. Finally he fell back, sighing.

“I love you”, he said. “And today we are going to wrap this case up, though we may need to be a little underhand in our methods.”

“I'm all for putting my hands under!” I quipped, sliding my hands round to cup his glorious arse. He shot me a look.

“Later, Dean!” he smiled. “Here's what I need you to do.....”

IV

Annoyingly, Mr. Smith forestalled us by ordering breakfast to be brought to his room the following morning. Cas was still getting dressed after our morning capers, so I went down to breakfast alone. I had barely ordered, however, when the fire alarm went off, and like the other guests, I hurried out to the front of the hotel. It was raining slightly, and there was a general grumbling as we waited for the all clear. 

It turned out that some debris at the bottom of the lift shaft had caught alight, and it was soon dealt with, although the twenty minutes we waited seemed a lot longer. Even though I was fully dressed unlike some of the guests, I was glad to be back inside, to find Cas had joined me at my table.

“All went well?” I asked in a low voice.

“Very”, he whispered back. “That was the only way to get our 'Mr. Smith' out of his room.”

“So you know who he is?” I asked.

“I am rather afraid that I do”, he said. “This is one case when finding the guilty party is only half the battle. If we are to see justice done, we shall have to play as dirty a game as our adversaries. That is something I am normally loath to do, but which must be done.”

I looked at him uneasily. He seemed unhappy at his findings, and I wanted to reassure him. At that moment, the waiter brought my breakfast, and I pushed the coffee over to Cas.

“Here”, I said. “You need it more than I do. I will order another one. And I did remember to ask for extra bacon.”

He smiled at me gratefully.

+~+~+

Our journey back to Baker Street was mostly in silence; Cas did not expect the mysterious 'Mr. Smith' to return until later in the day. Once we were back in our rooms, he immediately dispatched a telegram to someone, but did not tell me who it was. I took my notebook and sat on the couch, in order to begin writing up the notes from the day's events. To my surprise he came and sat down beside me, then lay down so his head was resting against my leg, his legs draped over the couch's arm. I smiled down at him, but he looked worried.

“Sometimes I hate this job”, he muttered. “I can empathize as to why some policemen go bad when they have to deal with the criminal classes all the time.”

I lightly ruffled the always impossible hair, and he made a half-hearted attempt to swat at me. We stayed like that for some time, until I heard the sound of the doorbell, and someone ascending the stairs.

“Our visitor approaches”, Cas said dryly, making no effort to move from his position. That surprised me, but I said nothing. He was comfortable there, and in his present state of mind, that was all that mattered. There was a knock at the door, and Cas finally hoisted himself upright, though he immediately edged closer to me as if needing the contact.

“Enter”, he called out.

The man who entered our room then looked distinctly ill-at-ease. He was of indeterminate age and an alpha, sharp-faced and expensively dressed. 

“You sent for me?” he said, sounding distinctly annoyed.

“Be seated, Mr. Wormington”, Cas said. “Our business will not detain you for long, I assure you.”

“I was not aware that we had any 'business'”, the visitor said sniffily.

“Well, if you do not wish to talk to me, there is always the Marquess of Lansdowne”, Cas said dryly. “I am sure he would be fascinated to hear what is going on in the lower reaches of the government department he ostensibly leads. And of course I am personally acquainted with the prime minister, Lord Salisbury, for whom I sorted a little matter some years ago. I do not think either of them would take well to what you have done. And as for the London papers.....”

The man looked horrified.

“You would not dare!” he stormed. “In the current climate, that would make you a traitor!”

“I take no lessons on morality from a man with blood on his hands!” Cas snapped back.

The two stared at each other for several moments, before our visitor slumped in his chair.

“How much do you know?” he demanded.

“I know that you are, in public at least, the minister responsible for foreign intelligence”, Cas said crisply. “I also know that, in reality, you are head of Department Two.”

“What on earth is Department Two?” I asked. 

“A government office dedicated to pursuing the goals of the British Empire and the War Office”, Cas said. “Not necessarily in that order, and regardless of trifling things such as morality and the law.”

“You do not understand government”, our visitor stated bluntly. “One cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs.”

“I understand murder”, Cas said. “Double murder, in this case. I understand what you did. And I fully understand what you are going to do over the next few weeks, unless you want this whole sorry mess blown all over the front pages right across this scepter'd isle. I love the British Empire, but I will always put the demands of justice above patriotism.”

The man scowled.

“There are some facts I do not know about this case”, Cas said. “You will provide them, and then we will talk terms. I am sure that you believe you have covered your tracks, sir, but like you, I can play a low game when needed. Deal fairly with me, and you will continue as you have been. Try to cross me, and I will destroy you.”

He did not raise his voice at all, but there was a tone of absolute conviction about his words. And our guest could see it.

“Say on”, he said flatly.

“The two priests?” Cas said.

“Both on a sabbatical in southern Russia.”

“The names of the two men?”

“James Penruddock and William Kirrin”, our guest said. 

“What were they doing in Egypt?” Cas asked.

“They were both mining engineers”, our guest explained. “Seconded for a year to work abroad, on very generous rates.”

“Except that they are now both dead”, Cas pointed out. "I doubt they would call that 'generous'."

“Who were these men?” I asked, bewildered.

“You knew them better as Father Benedictus and Father Fidelis”, Cas said. 

“What?” I exclaimed. He turned to me.

V

“This began, like I said back in Devonshire, as a turf war. The War Office wanted a showdown with the French, and had been hoping the current confrontation with them at Fashoda would escalate into open warfare.”

“But the French are our allies!” I protested.

“Old attitudes die hard”, Cas said grimly. “Remember, the Prussians were our allies for over a century before the balance of power abruptly changed across Europe. Many at the War Office doubtless hanker for the olden days, Waterloo and Trafalgar and all that. They view the Foreign Office as untrustworthy.....”

“That's because they are!” our guest cut in. Cas ignored him.

“So when they heard that their rivals had been entrusted with the safe conduct of two Coptic Patriarchs, they saw an excellent chance to cause them grief. Even if it involved the murder of two innocent men.”

“The real priests are still very much alive”, our guest said defensively.

“Unlike poor Mr. Penruddock and Mr. Kirrin”, Cas observed. “Very well. These two men are persuaded that, for some reason, they need to pass themselves off as Coptic priests all the way to England, up to boarding a train for London. I would assume that a large sum of money is promised for their co-operation. Doubtless they are told that they need only be seen getting on the train at Plymouth, and that once they reach Okehampton, they can double back. Unfortunately for them, it is imperative for the War Office that two dead bodies be laid at the feet of their political rivals. The men are shot, probably soon after leaving Plymouth, their assassin leaving the train at Lydford and doubling back.”

I stared in shock.

“You are guessing”, our guest said sulkily. Cas quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Mr. Paul Clabon?” he said.

Our visitor went pale.

“I have some useful criminal contacts of my own", Cas said airily, "and they spoke of him as one of the foremost assassins in London. They also told me that he liked his comforts, which was why I knew he would book himself into the best hotel in Plymouth, at the expense of the British taxpayer. I expect he and his men were waiting for the crew of the Ajax when they arrived with the two 'priests'. They threatened them with all sorts of repercussions if they did not stick to the story that they took their guests to the Great Western Railway Station. Doubtless they were also responsible for delaying the Foreign Office agent sent to escort them.”

Our visitor remained silent.

“I took the measure of entering his room this morning during an impromptu fire alarm at our hotel”, Cas said. “Very sloppy, sir. If you are pretending to be someone else, keeping your real identity in your wallet is highly inadvisable.”

“What do you want?” our guest asked snappily. “I thought you and your 'friend' here were all for Empire and that. You cannot go to the press.”

“Sir, you seem to have 'forgotten' the fact that your department has murdered two innocent men”, Cas said angrily “Two lives taken for the basest of reasons. International affairs frankly bore me. I can and I will expose you for what you are. However, if you undertake certain restorative measures, then for the sake of our Empire I will desist.”

“Such as?”

“Who are the next of kin of the two men?” Cas asked.

“Penruddock was married with one son. Kirrin was single, living at home with his mother.”

Cas wrote some numbers on a piece of paper and passed it over to our guest, who raised his eyebrows.

“An anonymous benefactor is going to give a large sum of money to the next of kin of both men”, Cas said. “And Mr. Clabon's employment - I know you have a permanent contract with him, so please do not trouble to deny it - will be terminated as of today. And Mr. Wormington, understand this. Should you fail to meet these conditions, I too have some 'interesting' friends who could make your life distinctly unpleasant. For now, I have not demanded your head too. Kindly note that I may rescind that particular act of unwarranted generosity at zero notice.”

Our guest swallowed at the threat.

“It shall be done”, he said. “Good day, gentlemen.”

He left hurriedly. Cas sighed and slumped back to his former position. I ruffled his hair again, and he leant into me even further.

“Murder by the British government”, I said softly. 

“We had so little proof”, he said. “I am sure that the bodies have already been disposed of, and any investigation could easily be derailed. No, this is the best solution I could have wrung out of this sorry mess. Though I still feel dirty.”

He sighed unhappily.

“What did you mean when you asked me to look at the men's teeth?” I asked, hoping to distract him.

“Egyptian food is often laden with the desert sands”, he explained. “It wears down the natives' teeth more than usual.”

“But these men came from Egypt”, I objected.”

“Yes”, he said, “but there were working for the British Army, who source their food supplies from elsewhere.”

“Oh”, I said. “And the mystery word, 'kerenza'? It sounds almost Italian.”

He chuckled.

“That was what helped me be certain”, he said. “'Kerenza' is a Cornish word for 'love' or 'beloved'. Not something a real Coptic Patriarch would have on his body.”

“Of course!” I laughed.

+~+~+

Postscript: Although Mr. Wormington (i.e. the British government) did indeed pay sizable sums to the next of kin of the two men his department had dispatched into the next world, he foolishly tried to circumvent Cas' other condition by cancelling his arrangement with Mr. Clabon, then getting another government department to covertly rehire him just days later. Cas told me this a few days later, after I read to him how a certain War Department functionary had been caught by a policeman in a most compromising position, and been summarily dismissed (I did not think the Times went in for that sort of photograph on its font pages!). Mercifully in light of what was to follow, Paris saw sense and the French backed away from Fashoda, saving the undeclared Anglo-French alliance.

+~+~+

All the (far too many) times that Cas had been so nearly taken from me, yet before our next case, I would face my own brush with Death - and an unknowing meeting with someone who would, eventually, turn into a guardian angel to us both......


End file.
